Skyrim: Frostfall
by HyperLines
Summary: Every legend has beginning. Every hero a childhood. Although, we may start off small we grow into incredible beings capable of surmounting the unthinkable. This is the origin of a young man who will brave anything to unlock the chains that bind the province of Skyrim.
1. Conflict

.

 **Chapter 0 **

**Conflict**

The chill.

To some this is just one of the constants of the world we live in. To me the chill is an omen. Like smoke wafting through the air, it envelopes all it touches. The chill finds its way through open doors and even the smallest of cracks. No matter how high or low, be you rich or be you poor, Man or Mer, the chill will find you. Like a tyrannical monarch, the chill bows you to conform to its will. It feeds upon the verdant breath of what was once living and leaves brittle husks behind. The abundant becomes scarce, the healthy become diseased, and wanderers become survivors.

Do you remember when the chill was mild? The feeling of skin as it dances in water, now much colder. The feeling of packing globs of snow together and tossing them at one another, things that can only be enjoyed when the cold is present. But days of recent have shown the chill to be far greater than that. Greater – not my best choice of words. Greater is too friendly a word to describe the chill.

Do not mistake me, though, I do not hate the chill. I fear what it symbolizes. It is a coming, a gate opening to a greater adversity seeking to pick at the swelling flesh that meanders in the cold; a parasite seeking to leech off all that still stands. I, however, am not one to bow my head in the presence of an adversary. Though I am not strong, nor wise, nor well-versed in the ways of concealment, I will stand at the gates. I will let my cry be heard. If my icy master thrusts my head towards conformity I allow him to do so. If he beats me until all the blood is drained from my vessel I still allow him. I will allow him to do what he will with me, once he has already ensnared me in his grasp… and I am uncatchable.

[End of Chapter]

 **A/N: Hey, buddy... Down here. So, you see, this fic is sort of an overture to a larger one that I'm writing. You can think of this as a small, seven chapter, prelude to the events of the main story. I'm breaking it up this way to see if anyone still reads Skyrim-based fics. If you like what you see, please let me know with a review or by following. Whichever, I'm not picky.**


	2. Goodbye Forever

.

 **Chapter 1**

 **Goodbye Forever**

Since mornings first light, the Pale had been shrouded in a mist of frost which glazed the land in a sub-zero frosting. Many trees had fallen ill to the cold breeze, shedding their leaves in the hopes that one day they might grow again. Like the lull of a somber tune, the cold weather had sedated its audience, leaving a stark quietness in its place. Such weather had found its way into Dawnstar, where it had a similar effect on its people.

Despite its political impact in Skyrim, Dawnstar was a small, shanty town filled with only a handful of snow-capped houses. Families and workers alike did what they could to carve a life out of the destitute tundra. On such a day, the frozen air had left the streets anything but busy. Most of the people had either huddled up indoors or well below ground, mine away at the precious veins of silver and iron. In the towns northern port, the ropes of onboard the Sea Squall hung slack, twisting and untwisting themselves in the breeze. Even in what should have been a noiseless day the sounds of Rustleif's hammer could still be heard bouncing off the hot steal of his forge.

Rustleif turned over his mold within the firm grasp of his tongs to ensure that underside had retained its shape. The blade had begun to take proper form as it glowed a cherry red from atop the anvil. Setting the hammer aside, he studied his work carefully looking up and down the edges of his piece. It appeared as though it still needed a bit more work before he'd be finished.

The smith, so focused on the blade, didn't see the ash from the forge's coals sore up and settled right upon his bare chin. His tools hit the stone forge with a loud metallic clatter as he swiped a pair of thick hands at his face.

"Foo-hot," he looked down at the forge's flames with discontent. "The girl hasn't burned me in years," he bellowed in a light tone. This was met with the mocking laughter from his son.

"I thought you did this kind of thing often, Dad?" his boy snickered.

"I do. Just goes to show, you can never be too careful when working a forge. You be mindful everything and mustn't get so head-sure of yourself," he said wiping his hands on his apron.

"Not if you're gonna be as great as me, though, right?" his son replied from across the fire, a finger pointed at his own unscathed face.

"No," he laughed, "even the best smiths have to be careful. You have to trust your skills, Rorick." He went back to his work, flipping the blade over to the other side to make sure he had accurately matched the design on the back.

Rorick scowled, unamused. "How am supposed to be not head-sure _and_ know I have skills?"

Rustleif gave him the same look he had given him earlier that week, the one that said: "Don't get smart with me, boy." The two sat there as Rorick watched in utter boredom while his father flipped and pounded the blade until he had a nearly completed shape of a sword. Then, like a father tucking a child into bed, he careful set the metal in a trough of water to cool. Rorick rushed around the side to see the result of their efforts.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said patting his son's back.

Rorick turned and looking up at his dad "No, it doesn't even look sharp."

"Once the blade cools, we'll use the grindstone for that. But the steel is far too hot now." He proceeded to wipe his hands on apron. A common vagary of his during the transitional stages of his work.

"How long until we do that?"

Rustleif held a hand to his chin and rubbed it with his finger creating a long black streak of soot from where he had wiped his hands. "Since we've still got to make the guard… I'd say another two hours or so."

"That'll take forever," complained Rorick.

"Hey," Rustleif shouted in his strictest tone. "I smithed plenty of swords here before, never whined once. Did I ever tell you most of the guards in Dawnstar carry—"

"Carry swords forged from this very smithy?" finished Rorick with a smug look on his face. "Yeah, you say that all the time."

His father looked befuddled for a moment then began to laugh. "You know, I guess you're right, I do." He laid a big soot filled hand down on his son's head and ruffled his dark brown hair.

The two sat by the fire for a minute and watched the flames. Together they listened to the crackle of the heat and held their hands out, feeling the heat of the flames. It had been quite up until Rorick turned and broke the silence.

"Um, Dad?"

"Son?"

"I want to go play with Finnick."

His dad eyed him questioningly.

"I'll be back before we finish the blade, I promise."

Rustleif looked down at the blade and then at his son's pleading expression. The choice was obvious, but still, Rustleif let out a huge, fatherly sigh. "Well, I suppose if it is alright with your mother."

Rorick eyes light up. "Really, yay!"

"Oh, thank you so much, Dad," Rustleif said sarcastically to himself.

Before his dad's words could reach his ear, Rorick had already rushed off. Just as he was about to take the first step off his porch, the door to his house opened. Rustlief's wife, Seren, appeared on the other side, a small stack of ingots resting in her hands.

"Mom, Dad said I can go see Finnick so that's where I'll be, bye." he blurted out, running off towards the docks.

"What?" she said tilted her head slightly. The sound of her husband's big Nordic feet rung out as he ran across the floorboards towards her.

He looked at his wife and tossed one of his chiseled arms around her while the other one was cupped around his mouth. "Hey, be sure and tell that Captain Wayfinder that I haven't finished the new spine to replace the skeever sized one he's got."

"Will do," Rorick said waving a hand behind his head to reassure his father that he had heard him.

Seren looked up at Rustleif quizzically. "I thought today was the 'father-son-forge day' you kept talking about?"

"He said he would be back in two hours."

"He won't," Seren said removing her husband's arm from around her shoulder.

"What makes you think that?"

She bent over beside the forge stacking the ingots beside the anvil in a tidy stack. "The boy has the same spirit as his mother, adventurous. He'll be having too much fun to think about smithing." Seren turned to face the forge's fire. She blew on the coals to make flames then stretched out her hands, enjoying the heat.

"Dear," still bent over, she turned her head behind her to look at Rustleif "how about you go inside and start the stew. I'll finish the blade."

"Oh-uh, sure."

She smiled and looked down at the blade settled in the water. "And honey, one last thing."

"Yes?" He turned half way inside the house halfway outside.

"Do wash up before touching the food, okay." She said, rubbing her chin.

Rustleif looked confused and began mimicking his wife's actions he looked at his hands and saw the black smudge across his fingers. No wonder the boy doesn't take me seriously.

* * *

Below the deck of the Sea Squall was a comparatively warmer interior, solely due to the lack of wind. The ship was old but very well built as was emphasized by its considerably large living space. Waves rocked the ship back and forth and the planks creaked ever so lightly. The wood that made up these planks was sturdy in nature as were the splinters it left in the unassuming feet of its crew. However, those wooden daggers were the only weapon on this trading vessel had to offer.

Down in one of the hammocks at the stern laid Finnick, a young boy, unsure of what to do with the rest of his day. It was too late to go back to sleep and yet too early to wake up. Lying down was only made him feel worse.

 _I gotta get up sometime._

Slipping his right foot over the edge of his hammock he held on to a wooden crossbeam and lowered himself until his foot could reach the ground. He sluggishly found his way to the small bathroom on the ship. A room that with a few modifications would have made for decent, yet small, closet. Finnick had always found something mildly comforting about the small space, it felt cozy.

 _This, this is where I was when that storm hit. I was scared. I was stupid._

He shuffled his way out of the bathroom sliding the door behind him closed. He walked, more awakened now, and made his way to the ships main room. A room filled to bursting with an almost unbelievable amount of rolls of paper, inkwells, quills and bottle of Don't-Touch-Juice that his dad had warned him about. Most of these items had been hastily crammed onto a wooden shelf that had some sort of support bar to make sure the items wouldn't fall off during travel. Opposite the stairs on the left side of the room, sat the navigation table. As the name implies, it was a table big enough to unroll several maps across its surface. Of course, this had now been made impossible thanks to the many dinner plates resting on top of these precious maps.

Finnick moved towards a few maps piled in a corner. He sifted through them moving them from one pile to another until his eyes came across one he recognized. Three happy stick figures and one angry looking one with pointed ears stood aboard a ship. There were small tick marks that lead to an X on the page.

 _I made this for Dad. They were all mad at him because we couldn't find… something. I remember he smiled at me when I showed it to him._

 _RAP RAP RAP!_

A banging at the door interrupted his thoughts. He quickly placed his map atop the second pile of discarded maps before shuffling them all together.

 _RAP RAP RAP!_ The knocker seemed to be very impatient.

"One minute!" Finnick called, walking to the stairs.

Before he could reach the first step, the door swung open, creating a path for the chilling air to come through. Rorick stood at the top of the stairs in the doorframe with a big toothy smile on his face. He looked like a warrior who had just taken out an entire group of bandits, both of hands placed on hips.

"Finnick, are you _still_ sleeping?" Rorick said taking the steps two at a time. "Come on let's go play!"

"I don't wanna." Finnick turned away from his friend, arms crossed over his chest.

Rorick grabbed Finnick's shoulders and spun him around until they were facing one another.

"Don't be _stupid_ , today's the last day I'm gonna see you in… forever! We have to do something fun!"

He knew that by "fun" Rorick meant that he wanted to play Red Mountains with him. It was a game that involved sticking your elbow out and the other guy would punch it. Then, they would stick their elbow out and receive a punch from you. You could only quit the game when it was your turn to punch and of course the first one to quit lost. The name Red Mountains came from the color of your knuckles and elbow turned after playing. Out of the twelve thousand games they had played Finnick had not won once.

"No, I hate Red Mountains! You always win." Finnick struggled to turn his away but Rorick's grip was still firmly in place. He hated how easy it was from him to hold him there.

"Okay, fine, we'll do something else but I really want to play with you. So come on let's go. We'll have fun, I promise." He grabbed Finnick's hand and started pulling him up the stairs.

"I'm _still_ not playing that game," he yelled out defiantly as he was dragged through the doorway.

With little effort, Rorick managed to pull his friend to the deck of the Sea Squall. Captain Wayfinder stood at the bow of the ship, talking with Ravam. Wayfinder laid his arms across the woodwork and looked out to the foggy sea. His second crewmate, Guthrum hammered away as he drove an iron nail into the mast.

Rorick stopped short of the dock and turned to Finnick. "Wait I have to tell your dad something real quick." He ran off to the bow of the ship and Finnick reluctantly followed.

"I just hope you know you're going to do with the Sea Squall. It's gonna need a new captain when you leave," Ravam said to Wayfinder, the usual snide tone rolling off his tongue.

"You know it's a big job, I've got to weigh my options carefully." Captain Wayfinder moved to face his shipmate and held a hand and rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

Ravam was infuriated at his captain's ambivalent attitude. "You've got two, two _bloody_ options! It's either me or the…" He stopped short seeing the two kids approaching. Ravam, folded his arms particularly tightly, as he callously looked over his shoulder in disgust.

"Mr. Wayfinder."

"Rorick? Yes, what is it?" He bent down to meet the boy's eyes.

"Me and Finnick are going to play now, okay?"

Wayfinder leaned to the left to see Finnick concealed behind the boy's back. Finnick still didn't appear to be smiling but he seemed happier than he had been all week. Bless the deveins for Rorick's blunt attitude or Finnick may never have gotten out of his hammock.

"That sounds like a fine idea. Finnick," his son's face popped out from behind Rorick. "You know to be back before dark, don't you?"

"Yes, Dad."

Ravam, tapped his foot loudly hoping the Captain would remember the important conversation they had been having, but by the looks of things he would continue talking to those brats. As if anything that came out their mouths would matter compared to the fate of the ship. He then trained his eyes on the back of Wayfinder's head imagining he had a large two-handed axe. One good swing was all it would take. Alas, a little bit longer of putting up with this scrub of a man and the boat would be his.

"Sir," Ravam said trying for his warmest tone. "I believe you were saying something of great importance regarding the Sea Squall's—"

"Oh yeah!" Rorick shouted, interrupting Ravam. "My Dad told me to tell you something, Cap."

"A message from Rustleif, what is it?" Wayfinder looked curiously at Rorick, unaware of the mental daggers being plunged into his back.

"He says he hasn't finished your new spine to replace your _skeever_ _sized_ one."

There was a short silence.

Ravam was the first to burst out laughing. "Skeever sized It's the god's blessed truth! His jokes are as sharp as the blades he produces!" he doubled over pointing at his captain. "Son, you tell your dad that his next bottle of mead is on me."

"Uh well…" Captain Wayfinder felt his face flush with embarrassment. "That's not very… um—"

"Bye! We're gonna go play!" Rorick shouted as he and Finnick ran off.

The two boys ran up off the deck and made their way to the shore where they spent hours looking at the shells and rocks that lined the beach. The same waves that had been rocking Finnick to sleep had now carried all sorts of wonderment along the frosted sands. Some of the pebbles that washed up appeared harder than the rest and we're covered and a thick black coating of minerals. Others, however, seemed to be very flat and smooth with a rosy stripped design that ran up the side of the stone and felt cold to the touch.

"Watch this, eight skips," Rorick said holding a white stone in his hand.

Finnick watched incredulously as his friend's arm cocked back and shot forward. The stone flew out across the waters surface with great speed.

"One, two, three, fou… aww!" Rorick stomped on the ground, crunching a few shells in the process. "Only three, I was sure I had that."

"Hey, that's really cool. I'm lucky if I can get one" Finnick mused, holding a black stone in his hand and tossing right into the ocean where it made a very hollow splash.

"Yeah, it's just cuz you get really strong working at forges." He tightened his arm to reveal the beginnings of a bicep.

"You get strong working on ships." Finnick tightened his arm to reveal a much smaller muscle foundation.

Rorick fluffed Finnick's hair "But not as strong as you do working at a forge. _Everyone_ knows that." He smiled looking down at his friend when Rorick's head suddenly shot outwards, toward the sea, as if he had heard something. His eyes were trained on the horizon. Finnick traced his line of sight but didn't see anything past the immense wall of fog.

"Rorick, are you okay?"

Rorick shook his head and looked at Finnick. "What? Sure, just thinking, that's all." His foot swayed forward and backward contemplatively. The motion of Rorick's foot carving small lines back and forth into the sand suddenly sparked an idea into Finnick's mind.

"Hey, there's something I really wanna do, okay?"

"Okay, Little Ick," Rorick said, calling Finnick their shared nickname "what'll make you happy?"

"I want to race you." He said meeting his friends gaze.

"What? Why do you want to race me?"

"You know how working at the forges makes you strong? Well, working on boats makes you fast."

"Skeever-scat! Where could you possibly run on a boat? It's too small," challenged Rorick.

"I run a lot, like when we get back from a voyage. I deliver all the goods. I run all over town." Finnick's fist we're both clenched as he was getting excited about the idea of having a race.

"Okay, Little Ick, good to see you got your spirit back, where are we gonna to race to?"

Finnick's finger touched his lower lip as his upper torso rotated looking for a good spot to end the race.

"There!" He pointed to a building not too far from their right.

"The museum? That seems like a short race, suit yourself." Rorick started drawing a line by dragging his foot across the sand.

"No," Finnick said, very firmly, "Not to the museum, the lighthouse."

"There's a lighthouse here?"

Finnick was not surprised that his friend was unaware of the lighthouse. The beacon was located on the outskirts of town. Several hills covered it up making it was almost invisible from the shoreline. However, being onboard the Sea Squall, Finnick had come to know the location his towering, stone friend very well. Lighthouses were always a sign that a long journey had ended.

"It's just past those hills," Finnick said, pointing precisely where the lighthouse was. "The first one to touch the stones on the tower wins, okay?"

"That sounds fine, hope those short legs can keep with me," Rorick patted the side of his tanned Nordic leg. He finished scratching out the starting line and proceeded to place his foot at the very edge of it. Rorick's back arched forward, ready race. Finnick was standing a few feet behind with his fists still tightened.

 _I'm not gonna lose to Rorick. I am good at this._

"Are you coming?" Rorick bellowed impatiently.

Finnick walked up to the left of his friend, putting his foot on the line. Finnick's leading foot quickly shuffled digging into the snowy sand on the beach. Shifting his weight forward, he began to mentally trace out the best path to get to his goal.

"Ready?"

Finnick's head nodded slowly.

"Set?"

His upper lip nervously overlapped his bottom one, and then they unmingled themselves.

"Go!" Rorick shouted taking off.

The crunch of the shells beneath their feet was the only sound to be heard. Finnick had fallen behind early on in the race, being on the side closest to the ocean the sand still wet and much harder run across. Rorick had still not gained too much distance away from him. Both of them came up to a set of houses as shore banked north.

 _Rorick's gonna go straight here, bad idea._

As he had predicted Rorick had barreled on ahead unaware of the steepness of the mountain on that side. Moments later thought he had heard someone shouting.

Finnick went to the left and made his way around the museum. Here the hill was much more manageable. He ran up the first slope as he felt a faint pain in his lungs. The cold air had caused a burning sensation in the pit of his chest. He did his best to ignore it.

 _Where's Rorick?_

Finnick's shortcut had caused him to travel at little bit out of the way to the lighthouse; if Rorick had somehow traversed the hill easily, he would have a huge lead. While keeping his pace, he glanced over to the right where he thought he'd see his friend, he was not there. He must have either been ahead of him or far behind. Finnick assumed the worst.

 _Oh no, di-did I lose._

Finnick's pace slowed in defeat. Then suddenly, he felt a second wind coming on. It was as if someone had just reinvigorated him with energy.

 _No, never, lose or not I'm not slowing down!_

Finnick arms pumped faster and his legs quickened their pace. His insides felt like we're on fire. Well, they would just have to burn to a crisp because there was no force in Skyrim that could stop Finnick from running.

The tower rose over the hill, its flame beckoning to Finnick. However, there was no sign of Rorick at the base.

 _I did it! I'm winning!_

That's when he heard it the sound of footsteps trampling behind. Rorick must have been just a few paces behind him and closing in fast. The shock victory being snatched away from him when he was so close was enough to motive a little more speed out of him. In a matter of seconds, it would all be over. The tower stood less than a bodies distance away now.

 _Annnnnnd… There!_

Finnick's hand touched the stone first. He collapsed on the foot of the steps leading up to the flame. He laid nestled between two stone walls the acted as guide rails keeping him out of the howling winds. Completely fatigued he sucked in deep breathes of air that only seemed to burn his lungs worse.

"I won!" he shouted between pants. "Rorick I wo… Rorick?" He peaked out from his stone cove and looked around but did not see his friend. He looked around and saw his own set of footprints, but no others. He was too tired to get up from his spot on the steps, so he sat there looking for his friend. He thought he had heard something chasing him while he was running here. Finnick arched an ear into the frozen winds.

The silence that was only broken by the distant echo of a pickax striking ore and the sounds of snow shuffling off somewhere. Then he heard it, an unmistakable growling that came at a low pitch, very nearby.

"W-wolves!" He cried.

Finnick had never actually seen a wolf in person before, at least not that he could remember, but Rorick's Dad had told them several stories of the fearsome creatures. Their calling card was a low growl that could rustle the highest of leaves and echo in the darkest caverns. Though Finnick never told his friend, those stories had scared him deeply.

He reached for the stones on the guide rail above him to pull himself to his feet, but misplaced his footing and ended up falling down on the stair again. Too tired to go anywhere he curled and put his knees on his face, sitting in defeat hoping the creature would take mercy on him. He heard the deep noises made by the fearsome paws as they bit into the snow. It moved closer to him. Finnick felt around on the steps and began to slowly pull himself upward.

"No, go away." he whimpered. Lungs hurting too much to make a fearsome sound or call for help. Finnick realized that he had no one here to help him, he was all alone. In all his life it seemed like there was always someone he could turn to for help, but not this time. With no way to defend himself, he gave a futile attempt to call for help.

"Daaaahaaaad," Finnick sobbed, tears streaming down his face. The words came out sounding more beastly than comprehensible speech. Then he remembered the story of the boy who had gotten into a fight with his father and ran off. When the boy didn't come back that night and the father got really sad. He went out looking for the boy but only found a torn up shirt that belonged to his son. The dad spent the rest of the story wishing the boy had not run off alone.

 _People aren't going to find me, ever._

He held up his arms and closed his eyes, pleading one last time. "Don't… kill… me… please."

There was a sudden silence that wafted through the air, the wind creased the side of his face. He realized that the growling stopped. Then, strangely, there was a curious, non-threating, snort echoed from somewhere nearby.

Finnick raised his head from his tears and looked up. The world was a soggy blur of colors that seemed to swirl in every direction. He lifted his hand to his eyes and wiped away his tears. He blinked several times for good measure. There, about seven feet away, stood a snow fox. Body faced horizontally, but head looking at Finnick. The creature seemed curious as to what the boy was doing.

He breathed a much-needed sigh of relief and wiped his still tearing eyes. This was not the creature Rustlief had described in his stories. It was small and friendly looking. Finnick slowly slid down the three steps he had managed to climb up and was now level with the fox.

"Could you come here please," he asked stretching his hand out. "I could really use a friend. I think I lost mine."

The fox blinked once, almost like it was trying to understand. Then it stared downward at the boy's hand.

Finnick looked at his hand too, now trying to understand the fox.

"Sorry, I wish I had some bread to give you, but I don't have any. I forgot to eat breakfast today so I'm really hungry too."

The Fox looked over its shoulder towards Dawnstar.

"Yeah, that my home. Where are you from?"

It looked back at the boy and moved closer. Finnick instinctively retracted his hand before gaining the courage to put it back. The fox lowered its stance and looked very wary of him. After several seconds of waiting, its body rose upward and continued to inch closer to him.

Finnick was happy that for some reason the creature had taken to him. It must have been mother fox that was used to comforting kids, he reasoned. Now, the animal was only a finger's distance away. The fox bobbed its head up and down sniffing his hand. Then out of nowhere, its ears shot up and it ran over to where it had been standing, head bent down to pick something up off the snow and ran off, away from Dawnstar.

"Wait!" he called after the creature, it was long gone. "Come back, please," whispered Finnick defeated.

No sooner had he finished his sentence than had Rorick's head appeared over on the opposite side of the hill as he climbed up the side of the mountain and ran up to the lighthouse. He tagged the stone guide rail with his palm and sat next to Finnick.

"What took you so long to get here?" Finnick asked.

"Well remember when you went you made that turn, between Beitld's house and the museum?"

"Okay"

"Well, I looked over to see where you had gone and wasn't watching where I was going and I accidently ran into Ms. Brina, knocked both of us flat on the snow. That milk-drinker guard of hers, Horik grabbed me by my collar and started yelling at me." He paused and took a breath. "Show some respect you miserable whelp!" he said in his best Horik impression. "After Brina got up, she told him to put me down. Then she lectured me about the proper way to treat someone who you run into. So I said I was sorry and came up here as fast as I could."

"Oh," Finnick lowered his head.

 _Rorick would have beaten me if that didn't happen._

As if he had read his friend's mind Rorick responded with, "You still would have won anyways."

"Really?" Finnick looked up, wide-eyed; Rorick was not one to dole out compliments.

"Yeah," Rorick said flatly, embarrassed by his own generosity. "Hey, so why are your eyes all puffy? Did you get scared?"

"No," Finnick mumbled, wiping his teary eyes.

"Lair. Jeez, you need to toughen up. What are you gonna do when I'm not around?" He thought for a minute. "I know what will do it," he announced snapping his fingers.

"I'm _not_ playing Red Mountains with you!" yelled Finnick.

"Why do you always think that's what I'm gonna say?"

"Because it _is_ what you _always_ say."

"No, it's not I just… Never mind, just follow me."

Both boys made their way back towards Dawnstar. When they came to the edge of the hills the wrapped arms around each other and slide down the slope, as a unit, cheering and screaming until they slowed. Once they had reached the bottom of the last hill Finnick noticed that the sky was now a darker blue than before; it would be dark soon. Rorick waved for Finnick to follow him to the backside of the rundown museum. Behind the building sat several barrels one just tall enough for Finnick to see over.

"What kinda game is this?" Finnick said looking at the barrel.

"Have you ever heard of arm wrestling?"

"Yeah, Guthrum and Ravam do it a lot when we're on long voyages."

"Okay, good, saves me the time of having to explain it to you. I thought of a way to make it more interesting," He rummaged around in one of his pockets for something. A flash ran its way across his face as he pulled out two long nails. "My dad had a lot of these lying around so I thought we could use them to… toughen us up."

"H-how?" Finnick wondered, not really wanting to hear the explanation.

Rorick's smiled got darker as he turned toward the barrel. "First, we place them in like this," He position on of the nail going at a diagonal angle on top of the barrel, Finnick assumed by that Rorick meant he would hammer them in.

"Then, when we're playing," while holding the nail diagonally in his left hand he set his right hand, awkwardly, to the left of it. He then proceeded to grapple with an invisible hand. "And if we lose," His slowly move closer to the other nail, struggling as if it didn't want to be impaled on the object. "Well," he moved his hands back to normal, "You get the idea."

Finnick nervously pressed his thumb and four fingers over his own right hand, as if he was holding a wound closed. "Are-are we really gonna get stabbed on the—"

"Of course not," Rorick admitted. "Well, I mean, maybe a little,"

Finnick remembered how scared he had been just a few moments ago when he thought a wolf was attacking him. If this would somehow make him stronger he would have to try it. Despite how cruel it seemed to him.

"Let me see the nails," Finnick extended a hand out in Rorick's direction.

"Sure."

The nails made a small clanking sound as they dropped into his hand. He ran to the shore with them jiggling around. He crouched down beside a pool of salt water, and held the two nails, by their heads, and dipped them in the water. He gave them a few good twists to make sure that they were well covered in the liquid then he pulled them out and ran back to a confused Rorick.

"Guthrum always told me to put sea salt on cuts. So I figured if these are gonna cut us we might as well salt 'em."

"Cool," Rorick said unimpressed, "hand them here."

With a large stone in hand, Rorick adjusted the angle of the nail until he deemed it good and began whacking it into place. It came through the lower part of the barrel and arced up at a menacing angle. After Rorick finished the first one he ran around to the other side to pound the other one into place. Finnick saw the wicked design of the barrel and for the first time in his life, wanted to play Red Mountains.

After Rorick had finished, he looked at the top of the barrel, from left to right, and shook his head with pride. He laid his arm down and glanced at Finnick.

"Okay, left hands only!" he said in an excited tone.

"Why?"

"Because I'm stronger with my left, that's why!"

"Oh, okay" Finnick answered, weaker than he wanted to.

He moved up to the barrel and placed his arm over top of it, grabbing Rorick's. He studied the nail to his right and gulped down some saliva.

"Come on, Little Ick, stop shaking, it's just for fun."

"Big Ick, why are fun things with you usually painful for me?"

Rorick laughed at his joke.

"Okay, are you ready? Set?" Rorick breathed out a small huff of air as they both tightened their grip on one another.

"GO!" he shouted.

Both hands matched equally in force, neither moved for a few seconds, they just teetered back and forth in the center. Suddenly, Finnick felt his hand start to go down towards the nail. He looked over and saw the strain in Rorick's face and could only imagine how red his own had become. However, that didn't really matter at the moment; Finnick was now practically touching his nail. Despite how much his body tried to contest the action Rorick's hand wouldn't budge. Then, somehow, Rorick briefly let up as Finnick gained ground until he was stopped back in the middle. Again like last time, Finnick lost ground and came in light contact with the nail. His efforts eventually turned to grunts.

 _He let up last time, he must be getting tired. Any second now he will let up again._

But that second never came. Rorick kept pushing as Finnick was pressed up against the cold, wet nail. Then the spike punctured his skin and chilling pain shot up his arm, followed by an insane burning sensation. Rorick must not have noticed because he kept pushing.

Finnick's pitch grew louder as the pain increased, "Ow, ow, Rorick s-STOP, YOU'RE _HURTING_ ME!"

Rorick's hand released as soon as he heard Finnick's calls.

Rorick looked down at his friend stuck to his own contraption. "Finnick! I am so, so sorry! I-I was… I didn't mean to hurt you!" he stated very profusely.

Finnick pulled his own hand from the nail and buried it deep in the snow, packing the ice over the wound. Thankfully, it was smaller than he thought it would be.

Rorick looked at his own hands, and then at his friend on the ground than at his invention, this time with less pride. He raised his hand over the needle on his side and pressed his palm onto it, wincing in pain from the salty jagged spike. He now could empathize with Finnick's pain. Little bits of blood dripped out of his new cut and painted the nail. Rorick careful raised his hand and sat alongside Finnick, who was still looking down at his injured hand.

"Here, let me see it," said Rorick, tenderly.

Finnick placed his hand in Rorick's, as he inspected the wound. There was a small hole less than an inch wide and not that deep in Finnick's hand. Blood seeped out of it. Rorick looked at his own hand, their marks looked identical. He slowly clasped his hand over Finnick's, matching the two holes together. He looked and saw Finnick's confused face and tried to give him a proper answer.

As their blood mix together, Rorick began to talk, "Finnick, you remember how people always say we spend so much time around each other that we could be brothers? Well, there was this one time when my mom told that in order for two people to be brothers they have to share the same blood. I-I cried for a whole day. I guess I knew that because we didn't have the same blood we could never be brothers. And if we were brothers then maybe you wouldn't have to leave. And Finnick, you're… you're my best friend, I-I don't know what I'm gonna do when y-you."

Finnick broke the connection and wrapped Rorick in his arms.

"Rorick, I am not just your best friend anymore," he held up his hand, "I'm your brother." Finnick rushed Rorick with a big hug.

To Finnick's surprise, Rorick returned the hug.

After a while longer of sitting there hugging the two final decided that it was getting late and that they should each head home. As they we're walking back Finnick scanned Rorick's face and saw the beginning of a tear.

 _Rorick, cries too?_

"Hey Rorick, did you notice?"

Rorick looked at him.

"I didn't cry, not once when I got stabbed," Finnick claimed proudly. "I think that now because we're brothers, I am gonna be a lot stronger, like you."

"Yeah, who knows, maybe there will be a forge in your new town. Then you can get _really_ strong."

The two of them laughed with one another and walked along the shore until they had to part ways, for good. They both looked saddened and weren't sure what to say to one another. So a simple hug and goodbye sufficed as Rorick went inside his house and Finnick boarded the Sea Squall and went to walk below deck before he turned back to look at Rorick's house.

 _Goodbye, Brother._

* * *

Seren sat in her house by the fireplace, having seconds of some potato leek stew. Rustleif had already gone to bed and she stayed up waiting for her son to come home. The sound his footsteps as he trudged up the wooden stairs to the door echoed from outside the walls. She stood up, brushing the dust from her apron and walked towards the handles. Right as she got there the door opened and there was her little son, standing the doorway, hands behind his back.

"Well come on in, it's getting dark," she said in a motherly tone. "Did you and Finnick have fun?"

"Umm, yeah, lots of fun," He stayed in the doorway. "Mom? Could I please get your help real quick?"

"With what, dear?"

"I want to smith something, for Finnick, before he leaves tomorrow."

Seren knew it was getting late, but what harm could this possibly have, after all, it's not every day when your son's friend moves, or, in Rorick's case, says please. Not to mention, this would be a fun story to tell her husband when he woke up.

"Sure, sweetie, what do you want to make for him?"

[End of Chapter]

 **A/N: …Huh you seriously read all that? Dang, thanks. I feel all warm 'n fluffy now. But seriously, I will keep future chapters at more manageable fifteen pages (this one was 21). But hey, maybe long chapters are good too (I don't know, it's only my second fic). Anyway, let me know what you thought of this one. While I try everything to avoid it, I'm super open to criticism. Additionally, if you have any questions about the story feel free to PM me.**

 **Oh! One last thing. A sincere thank you to everyone who reviewed the prolog. Your comments were so amazing to read and I only hope to keep you all entertained. Expect the next update soon!**


	3. Breaking Ice

**A/N: Wow, sorry about the hiatus there. My plate has been a really full lately. But hey** ** **, let me know how guys are liking the Skyrim: Special Edition. It looked way cool!** Hope you all enjoy the latest chapter (it's a little on the short side) and I thank you all for your continued support. I'll try to get the next chapter done sometime next week. Until then, stay hyped!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **Breaking Ice**

The wagon bobbed up and down, the creak of the wheels sounded like the cries of small birds calling to each other. Captain Wayfinder looked at the road ahead of him and smiled. The trees seemed to be touched with a brush of green, though still mostly covered in snow. As was every other part of the forest they traveled through. Had anyone else had been looking at this road they would have found the climate to be identical to that of Dawnstar. However, being confined to one area for a lengthy period of time makes the little changes seem more significant.

Wayfinder raised his head from it reposed position, looking ahead to see where this frosted path would take them. The road seemed to stretch on a bit before it was blended with the horizon. Despite the painstakingly slow pace, the carriage was traveling at, the captain was still quivering with the excitement that came with exploring new areas. It was a similar feeling to exploring by sea, except less disorienting; no waves to bounce them about. The trip would be about nine hours more before they reached their destination. That's quite a long time to sit in awkward silence without paying proper tribute to one's driver.

"So, do you tote a lot of folks?" Wayfinder asked the coach sitting to his left, reins in hand. The expression on the man's face was particularly hard to read as it seemed to be overly focused on the road ahead of him. A furred hat with its tip draped over part of his face gave him an almost deceivingly pleasant air about him.

"Yes, it's how I make a living." He replied in a dull voice, not really wanting to talk.

Wayfinder could hear the man's strained tone and realized now was not the time for any conversation. However, his lips decided to ignore what his brain said and proceed with reckless abandon. "I imagine you must run into quite a bit of trouble with all the bandits and what have you."

"No."

"No? Well, I find that hard to believe, I mean look at the size of the trailer, it's huge! And what with that fancy cover over the back too, I mean _anything_ could be in here. I myself find it rather tempting. You know, I don't believe I have ever seen one these with cover before. And I've traded with plenty of your type before." He stood up and contorted his body so that he was now facing the back of the trailer. The tarp was sturdy and thick to the touch. It may have even been able to withstand a fallen branch or two.

"It's actually a design from Elswayr, the Khajiit use it to keep the sands from storms from damaging their goods when they—"

"Ah!"

A small bump in the road had jolted the caravan upward sending the Captain propelling out of his precarious position and onto the driver's lap. His face landing atop the carter's thighs. Wayfinder's reflexes acted in a split second as he clawed his way back to his spot. The two sat in silence.

"…Y-you said the Khajiit built this, right?"

The glare Wayfinder received cooked his inside at low broil.

"Bunch a' thieving, pointed eared bastards," he spat out the words with a particular disdain and hurt. "They'd sooner sell their young for a vial o' skooma… Their carts, though… only good thing that ever came out of Ely way."

The race of felines from Elswayr had never wronged Wayfinder in one way or another but it was clear that this man had held some old grudge against them. This was an end he could work to regain the respect and friendship of his driver.

"Khajiit! Bah! Bunch cowardice thieving… CATS. Have I got a story about them!" This was one of the first, real, opportunities Captain Wayfinder had to make a new friend. Tell a story of grand adventure and intrigue is something any captain can do. Such an opportunity hardly ever came in Dawnstar, at least not with his reputation. However, his lips once again beat his brain to the punch. The excitement of making a friend had eclipsed the fact that he had actually never met a Khajiit. With panic prickling up his spine, he decided to tell one of his wife's stories. Most people seemed to like her stories better anyway.

"So, here I was in the middle of the war. Enemies on every side!" Wayfinder bellowed in his best story telling voice. "Our numbers were thinning and there seemed to be no means of escape for me or my fellow soldiers. I drew my—" He flinched as the reins cracked, echoing off the trees.

"I thought you told me you were Captain… of a boat." The driver asked nonchalantly.

Wayfinder broke the gaze and turned nervously away from the driver. The story hardly sounded anything like a sea captain would tell but maybe it was just vague enough to save.

 _Great, trying to make a friend through lying, this is going well._ The wheels seemed to be laughing at him with their cruel squeaks and creaks. Despite the increasingly nervous air, the captain persisted in telling his story.

"Well, yes, a-a _war_ boat, we were contracted to help fight the um…" Oh, divines, Imperials or Stormcloaks which one? The two contrasting armies had been at war for decades now. Each one fighting to preserve their own system of beliefs. The last thing Wayfinder needed was to politically insult his driver. How did his wife tell the story?

"The…Strom…cloaks?" The words were uttered with so little power it seemed the driver didn't even hear them.

"You told me your ship was a bartering vessel, _contracted_ to bring people bread and mead."

"Yes! Well, you see… it was more than bread, a bit—a bit of void salt too…" he trailed off looking at his own feet. His body contorted in a closed, embarrassed stance. Falling on his driver and caught lying twice, not the best first impression he had ever but certainly not his worst either.

"Perhaps it is best we stay quiet until we reach Riverwood," Reasoned the driver.

"Yes, perhaps."

He shifted his whole body the other way now looking off to the side, too embarrassed to be looked at now. Trees continued on blocking most of the view. After a while of staring in complement with carts motion, certain trees began to line up with one another allowing quick glimpses to what laid beyond. Wayfinder noticed, though interrupted glances, a goat in the distance munching on what was most likely the only patch of grass for miles. For some reason, this occurrence felt almost supernatural. It was like suddenly realizing that you're not alone in the world.

He looked over his shoulder hoped his son was enjoying the ride more than he was. Riverwood would be a great place to live. A village between two major holds would definitely be a safe place to start a family. Falkreath on one side and his wife would only be a short walk away in Whiterun. In one of her letters, she had mentioned that there was a good lumber mill there. That would be a good place to start working. Finally, Wayfinder would be a follower and not a leader, much less expectations. A new life, though, that can be hard for anyone, especially kids.

In the back of the wagon laid Finnick. He was shrouded by the carts thick hide cover which cast the whole place in shadows. The foot-high pile of hay made for a soft, warm bed and added a very cozy feeling to the small space. The creaks and bumps reminded him of the way the Sea Squall used to rock; maybe going to a new place wouldn't be so bad after all. He tilted his head upward to see the rest of his body completely cover by the friendly straws. The sound of a thousand small barbs rubbing against wood lofted through the air as Finnick laughed out of sheer comfort.

He ran a hand, through his chaff blanket, along the side of his hip. Nothing was there.

 _Uh-oh, where is it!_

He unearthed his legs from the hay and then his arms. Now sitting up, he swiped at his hair trying to free it of the stray strands of straw. While bracing his hands against the floor of the cart, he lifted up his midsection and examined his belt.

 _Not there either, did I drop it?_

He felt around the floor of the wagon, shoving hey left and right. The wood had a very unwelcoming feel to it as Finnick placed his hand out it and hoped he wouldn't get any splinters. Then, his hand bumped a familiar metallic hilt. He grabbed hold of the handle and freed the dagger from the straw.

"I got you!" he cheered.

Finnick gazed over the leather handle. The blade sat in place in a well-made sheath. As he had done numerous times since Rorick had given it to him, he unsheathed the blade and admired the craftsmen ship. On the face of the blade engraved into the iron was a large F. The tail of the letter had swooped out and curved back upward matching the rest of the letters wave like appearance.

"See it looks kinda like the waves on the ocean," Rorick had explained. "Sorry, I really wanted to make you a steel one but iron was all we had."

"The F, that stands for Finnick right?"

Rorick looked amused at his friend's simplicity. "I would have gone with fool, but whatever you want I guess." He teased. "Anyway thanks for the rock… it's really… cool."

"It's a pearl! My mom gave it to me for my birthday. Don't lose it, please!"

The boys hated to say goodbye but these two items would help to make sure they never forgot each other. These little mementos were all they had to remember each other by, except for the _other_ memento they shared. Finnick turned the hand that wasn't holding the dagger slightly, so he could see the back side of his hand. There was that dot-like cut. Hopefully, it would turn into a scar, if he was lucky.

Finnick collapsed in a lazy heap on the soft hay pile and stared at the dagger and backside of his hand.

He did as Seren had warned him. It was a very sharp blade if he wasn't using it; it was to be in its sheath. And so he slipped it in its case and fastened it to his belt. His eyes felt heavy from the anxiety of nightmares and excitement, an unusual combination both of which had him up last night. He rolled from his side and onto his back and looked up at the tarp that shielded him from the snow. So soon he would be in Riverwood, and begin anew.

[End of Chapter]


	4. Melting Point

**A/N: Hello, all you lovely readers out there. So, I kinda broke the 15 page-limit I set for myself earlier so apologies for the long chapter, again. We're still in the exposition stage of the story so there's a lot to establish. I recommend taking breaks at horizontal lines if long fics aren't your thing. Hope you all are enjoying it (always feel free to criticize or praise me with a review).**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

 **Melting Point**

Sunlight heavy-air had set Skyrim laden with a bright and comforting warmth. The stones on roads seem to sizzle with mirth, inviting the rays to dance atop their igneous heads. Leaves that would have sooner cracked and crunched under minuet pressures now jostled contently by a passing breeze. Everything that made direct contact with the outside world was now a few degrees hotter than it had known to be normal. Nearby bodies of water provided a welcomed contrast to this spell, as the mists of a waterfall wafted through the air.

Fast asleep, Finnick lay with his head up against the back exit of the caravan, where a small circle of sunlight found its way in and decide to rest atop his blond hair. Temperature variations were nothing new to the young shipmate; he had slept through many treacherous conditions offshore. However, none of those conditions included having the side of your cheek stroked by a large callous hand. Finnick stirred from his sleep, quickly bolting up from his reposed state.

"Whoa! Easy there. It's only me."

The light happy-go-lucky voice was easily recognizable as his fathers. Reaching his hand through the opening in the back of the caravan his father reassuringly patted the back of his shoulder. By the looks of things, it appeared as though his son had had another sleepless night as was typical back in Dawnstar.

"Dad," he said waving a tired hand across his face. The straws scratched at the boards as he slowly scooting to face the opening Finnick asked, "I don't want to make any more sweet rolls?"

"…What? Is this another dream, oh let me guess," His father leaned forward, through the opening using his hands to balance himself. "Who was it this time… Helga Hagraven?"

Finnick shook his head in response. "Captain William Willy Willgo, scourge of the seas," the sleepily, slurred speech was something only a father could decipher.

"What does, Captain Willgo look like?"

"He's an Orc, about half as tall as a giant!"

"Divines, that's tall."

"Ayah, _really_ tall, he has teeth like this," He moved his fingers in different parts of his mouth to signify teeth. "And has his hair like this," Finnick's short blond strands had been transformed into a ponytail by the simple placement of a hand.

His dad feigned shock and horrified looks as Finnick continued to describe the brute through various pantomimes. This sort of thing always amused his boy, made the nightmares seem less scary.

"And he loves chasing kids and eating boiled cream treats."

"I thought it was sweet rolls?"

Still half asleep, Finnick eyed his father in wonderment, batting his eyes with a puzzled look. Then as if trying to recreate the dream in his head, Finnick's eyes shot upward to reach a mental consensus regarding the nature of Willy's diet.

A holler came from the front of the cart. "Captain Wayfinder! I do have more stops to make!"

The captain had almost forgotten the reason why he came to the back the cart. After the long trip, they were now just outside of the town. It was now time to collect their things and be on their way.

"Dad, where are we, Riverwood?"

"Yes son, we are." The captain ran two hands down his long head of hair in disbelief. "Riverwood, can you believe it? Now, here, hand me those bags there."

Sitting in the far corner of the trailer was five bags of gear, supplies, and keepsakes from the Sea Squall. Well, technically, it was two large bags and three much smaller sacks. The bags were almost too heavy for Finnick to move; he had to use both his hands to carry a single one. After that, the rest of the unloading process took less than a minute. He ended up carrying the two sacks and his father handled the rest, barely.

Wayfinder counted out the coins from the purse tethered to his side. Looking up at the coach from ground level made him seem all the more menacing. An impeccant grimace only added to the effect. An easy remedy was to stare down and continue to counting coins, never looking up.

"23…24…25! There, twenty-five septims for the trip."

"Forty-five, you spilled— threw my lunch at that _troll_ of yours" the words were said with the smallest hint of disdain.

"Biggest rabbit I've ever seen." Wayfinder chuckled, unaccompanied by the driver who didn't find the situation to be amusing in any degree. Losing an untouched bowl of venison stew was no matter to chuckle about.

Captain Wayfinder placed forty-five septims in the malevolent hand thrust in his face. Then he watched as the carriage clanked off over the bridge and downhill. It was unlikely that he had developed a lasting relationship with the coach, at least not a positive one.

"Dad," his son yanked at his pant leg. "Look at this place! It's gorgeous."

Wayfinder spun around to get a look at the new town. "Well, would you look at that?"

Trees majestically set themselves along the mountain side, a sight that would be considered abnormal compared to Dawnstar's tundra. However, it was the trees themselves that stuck out the most. White snow, black rocks, and dark bark where the only color the made the unsaturated pallet of the Pale, but here the world had sucked the life from the surrounding organisms and displayed it for all to see. This ambiance was coupled with the sounds, sounds of people living juxtaposed against the rustle of the leaves or the trickle of the water. The lonesome presence left by the cold had been purged from this land. Now, he viewed a colony embedded in vitality with a foothold in comfort.

Two figures approached from the inner dwelling of the city. The first was fair skinned women dressed in a long dark blue dress that blew in a way that reflected a kind and approachable aura. However, her most notable feature was the lengthy blond hair that was well passed her shoulders. On the women's right stood a bulky man who strode with a great amount of confidence and purpose. His clothing choice was that of a blacksmith. Other than his light brown hair and tender face, he reminded the captain of Rustleif from Dawnstar. Both had those over exercised muscles that had too many veins for the skin to cover.

"Why greetings and deveins bless you. Welcome to Riverwood," the woman said with a genuine smile spreading across her face. She extended a hand to the Captain who fruitlessly shuffled the items in his arms to try and receive shake.

"For god's sake, Alvor, help the man with his things. He can barely stand on his feet."

The face of the bulky man sprang to life and his meaty arms moved towards the captain. "Right. Here, allow me." The gravelly voice offered.

Wayfinder thrust the load away from the strong capable hands. "That's, quite alright. I am more than capable to…" The captain grunted unable to hold the load for much longer, but his pride as a captain and a father was at risk.

The women give him a cross look. "Talva told me you were a stubborn one, but there's no need for that attitude. Here in Riverwood, we enjoy helping one another."

"Talva!" Wayfinder grunted. "You, you know my… Thank you," The man named Alvor removed two of the sack from his arms mid-speech leaving him with one sack, enough to feel like he was contributing a little bit. "You've spoken with my wife?"

"Yes, before she began her work for the legion, she worked at my mill."

"You're the mill owner?" Wayfinder racked his brain, he knew his wife had written about her in one of her letters. "Your Grandeur… Gutter…" Both names we're met with blank expressions as the captain kept racking his brain.

"Gerdur?" offered Gerdur.

"AH! Yes! Gerdur!" Wayfinder felt like a ton of steel had just been removed from his chest. He hated the feeling of forgetting something as simple as someone's name. Though this hate didn't stop this from happening far too often. That's what was nice about have a crew of three, only had to remember two names. "I'd never thought I'd get meet you in person."

"Likewise, Captain Wayfinder. Though I guess it's hardly fitting to call you Captain anymore."

He threw up his shoulders in a mellow fashion.

Leaving the Sea Squall was a hard decision. He had dreamed of a time where he would show his crew what a great leader he could be. They would come to his with the utmost respect, and dutifully follow his lead. Who knows maybe when danger came for-front his crew would turn and say "Captain, what should we do?" It was always something Wayfinder though he would eventually achieve, he was still young. Then more important things came to play, a loving wife and child. Moving on was for the best.

"Excuse me," Gerdur and Wayfinder looked to see Alvor standing to the side, arms still effortlessly clutching the burden. "Where are we taking these?"

"Those! Right." Wayfinder's free hand tore through his pocket and pulled out a tattered scrap of paper. Clutching the paper in his on free hand he read each word separately as it refused to stay still in the lightest breeze. "The-Sleeping-Giant-Inn. Is that a good place to live?"

"Oh, there? It's a decent place, not but a few paces from here." Alvor toted the load in the direction of the inn.

"Alvor, aren't there any vacant homes? We can't really allow these two men to share a room there."

"Two? Where is the second one?"

Gerdur moved close to Alvor and whispered. "Behind our guest's legs, he's been hiding there the whole time." Her eyes motioned to a small body protruding out from the sides of the captain's legs.

Overhearing the chatter Wayfinder looked behind him. "Finnick, what are you doing back there?"

Finnick's eyes wandered around trying to think something to say. "I don't know." He said timidly.

"You're not scared of these people are you?"

 _Did you get scared?_ He pictured Rorick saying. Finnick puffed out his chest and stood beside his father. "No! It's just… I never met them before."

The large man came around and squatted next to him. "Do you need help with those bags, Son?"

"I got them," he said slightly confused by the man's use of the word "son". "My name is Finnick, what's yours?"

Alvor shot an amused look at Gerdur as if to say "How polite." He turned back and replied, "I'm Alvor. I'm town's blacksmith."

"You're a blacksmith?" Finnick said mesmerized. "Do you have a forge?"

"Sure do."

"I had a friend once, named Rorick, his father was a blacksmith too!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! He had a mother and she was smith too!" It was comforting to find some similarities between his two homes. Maybe this man could teach him how to use a forge. Maybe he could become better at it the Rorick.

 _Who am I kidding? Rorick's always better._

"Well, you'll have to tell me all about them on the way to the inn."

Finnick seemed to be so excited about finding a common interest with his new friend. He would tell him all about the sword he watched Rustleif make and the time when he learned how sometimes even when things don't look hot they still burn. Finnick step had an extra spring to it as they walked ahead leaving the other two trailing behind them.

From back here Wayfinder took the time to observe the infrastructure of his soon-to-be hometown. One thing that had begun to bother the captain was where the buildings in Danwstar were spread apart the ones here seemed to be built into one another. Everything felt a little invasive. The houses were built with fine masonry work, though, a far cry from the spotty work back home. These buildings towered on both sides of the group as they walked. Kids, Finnick's age, played a game of tag through the streets weaving in between the group. A dog also ran passed and barked with what must have been joy.

"Talva told me you needed some work while you were here, right?" Gerdur asked Wayfinder as they made their way across town.

Wayfinder's heart skipped a beat. A job opportunity was at stake, time for a little charisma to help secure a stable living for him and his son. Thankfully, _The Captain's Book of Bartering_ had taught him one sure fire thing: empathy by reliability. If one humanizes themselves in a dignified and respectable manner, then one's opposition is more like to give.

"Please, I really need the work. I'm used to hard labor on the ship and I could really use the septims! You must understand I have nowhere else to go and no other income! I HAVE A SON!" He did skip a few pages in the areas of dignity and respectability.

"Easy there Captain," her hands held high to calm the blathering man. "Talva's a good friend of mine if she needs a favor I'll help. You can start work tomorrow morning."

 _In other words, Wayfinder, she is doing this for Talva, not for you so don't make a fool of yourself_. He thought lofting mournfully in his boots.

The group made a sharp left ended up in front of the doors to the inn. A big building, one story high. The type of building that looked like it would have a roaring fire lit on rainy days. Massive stones were set next to a thick wooden door giving the building a sense of utmost safety The faint sound that Wayfinder recognized as a lyre could be heard playing just beyond the door.

Before anyone of the four could reach for the handle, they all felt a sudden hush grip them. Dogs refused to bark and all idle conversations seemed to have been halted. All that could be heard was the crashing sounds of a distant waterfall echoed onward. Then, in unison, the two guides stopped and turned to face south to the gates opposite the one Wayfinder had entered. As if in response, a soft yet distinct tapping sound grew out of the silence. It was a very controlled beat like that of a pickax as it clashes with a rock. Although it had begun softly it appeared to be getting louder.

"He's back," Alvor said flatly.

"Early too." She concurred.

" _Who_ is back?" Wayfinder asked grabbing Finnick's hand. "Gerdur, is everything alright?"

She remained as still as a statue and peered off towards the horizon. Sure enough, there was a figure running for the town.

"Arvel," she finished in a stoic voice.

"Arvel?" Wayfinder asked, shoving his way into the conversation.

The smith shifted his head towards Wayfinder to answer, "Dark Elf, very trustworthy, he is our town's personal courier, so-to-speak. He collects information from Whiterun and Helgan and delivers it to us. Must be something important. We weren't expecting back for another three days."

Wayfinder felt Finnick's body slide around him to get a better look. "Is he dangerous?"

"Gods no, the poor soul couldn't swat a spider."

His father's sturdy hand grabbed Finnick's shoulder and held him close.

The man named Arvel trudged forward with breathtaking speeds. His face breathed dedication and his hand clutched something important. Everyone else in town watched this man pass by them. He knew something nobody else did and they all respected him for that. Whatever courier was, they were cool. Arvel rushed past the village and halted, in a pant, at Gurder's feet. His forehead was wet with beads of sweat that had run down his face and were now dripping from his brow. He took several uneven breaths before he finally managed to hold his head up and speak.

"Ma'am, I have returned from Helgan with," he took another breath, "tremendous news." He sucked in another breath prepare to say his next words, "This war is coming to an end!"

The man's words shifted and reformed into a virus that spread throughout the whole town in seconds. Could the war that had gone back as far as most remember really be ending? Had the fight between Stormcloaks and Imperials final come to meet its conclusion? Not to mention, who had bested who? Was it imperial leader General Tulius that held the high ground or did Ulfric Stromcloak mange to start a true uprising? Such news was unthinkable, sensational! Several onlookers had already begun to speak their minds.

"At last! Has Ulfric has been captured!?"

"About time this futile war ended."

Alvor moved in close to the Courier to signal a more personal conversation was needed. "Were there any… altercations with the Impearls?" Alvor face read that of stones atop a high peak: sturdy and ready to crush if you made the wrong move.

"Well," Arvel stopped to take more breaths, clearly he had been running for a very long time. However, the acute sound of Avlor's cracking his knuckles was all the motivation he needed to continue talking. His lips smacked together as started his speech. "You, see, action has yet to be taken. The pieces are all there, no moves left to make, they just need to be played."

"Speak plain! You mean Imperial or Stormcloak?" Gurder thrust her way into the conversation with a poignant air.

"Ma'am, I don't really know how to say this," Arvel's hand rubbed the back of his neck. "But the Stormcloaks aren't going to be around much longer. Once the war's over many soldiers who survive the next strife will be executed for treason against the Empire."

A heavy silence fell through the air. All eyes were on Gurder. She held her head low, strands of hair draped over her face, then brought it up with an overly neutral expression. Seeing a woman who had been so welcoming turn cold in a matter of seconds was truly a wavering sight. Then two simple words fell out and echoed in the men's ears. It had sounded overly bland as if she had been reciting the phrase slowly to herself for hours without stopping.

"I see."

"Excuse me, did I miss something?" All eyes now moved to Captain Wayfinder. "Um, well, since when did killing Stormcloaks become a bad thing? We've been fighting for years now. Shouldn't we be rejoicing that we can start over?"

Riverwood had always been officially ambiguous with who it supported in the war. However, being as close as it was to the imperially led Falkreath—coupled Uflric's "If you're not at our side you will be on the end of our blades," mentality—it was pretty safe to assume that most of the villagers held their sympathies with the legion.

Gurder ignored him. "Arvel, I would like you to meet with me in the Riverwood Trader." She began walking away from the group in the direction of the traders. By the speed, she walked it was clear to everyone that by "I would like" she meant "you will."

"Why there?" Arvel called.

"Lucan has a brother in the legion. I am sure he'll want to hear this news away from prying ears."

"I understand Ma'am."

"Alvor?" Gurder said in closing, "Be sure and help our guests move into their new home. We will speak later, I know you must be worried about Hadvar."

Alvor responded by holding up his hand sympathetically and gave a silent nod. They both understood what was to happen and each went their separate ways. The two men continued forward, through the door. They moved the bags into a small room in The Sleeping Giant Inn. It was very odd being hit with such a whirlwind of information than to just go back to business as usual. It seemed so hard to believe that Ulfric was going to finally be stopped. What did this mean for the rest of Skyrim? Was there really to be peace once again? Thoughts like these occupied the men so much so that they didn't even notice the extra trip they made to collect two sacks.

After a bit of rearranging, Gurder and Arvel made an acceptable spot to go over, in detail, what was to happen in the coming years. A table had Arvel's map of Skyrim spread flat across it, chairs at the both ends. The light cast from the fireplace made the map very readable. Even the many chalky vectors, that represented the paths of the different sides, could be seen clearly. At Gurder's request, they both went over the details countless times. Lucan was offering his help by cooking them a meal to eat while they went over the facts.

"So, there is to be an ambush at Darkwater Crossing?" Gurder reassured.

"Yes, you see Riften has been put under siege by the Imperials. They got blockades across Eastmarch." Several red x's were drawn in a jagged line and the lower-right portion of the map, "One of our Dunmer spies in Windhelm alerted us that Riften was getting desperate for supplies, bad fishing I suppose, so Ulfric was planning to send a relief convoy along the west side of Darkwater crossing."

Gurder followed his finger as it started in the right-most portion of the map, on the city marked Windhelm, and moved downward to a river. The river flowed southward all the way into Lake Honrich, a lake the bordered the western side of Riften. She took note of icons that indicated mountains drawn on either side of the lake.

"There's no way anyone could drive a convoy through that."

"Yes, that's the beauty of it. It's so rough looking it makes sense that Tullius wouldn't station troops there. Yeah, it was rough but they managed to do it, somehow."

"He knows they're men there waiting to kill his troops and he recklessly sends them off on a dangerous trail? That's suicide!" yelled Lucan.

"Lucan!" Gurder took a second to calm herself "Now is not the time." She returned her eyes to Arvel and motioned for him to continue.

"General Tullius saw an opportunity, he preemptively cleared his troops out of the way, and let the small caravan of supplies pass unabated. You see, now the Stromcloaks think they found a chink in the blockade. So, five of Ulfric's most trusted soldiers are delivering the goods to Riften just outside the palace when they see a curious figure dash out and drop a note that seems like it's from the town's leader, Jarl Laila Law-Giver. A note that she has written to Tullius, saying that she was open to negotiating Riften's position in the war. Like a treaty between the two. A treaty Tullius will be in attendance in person."

"Hold on," Gurder stopped Arvel. "There's no way five of High King Ulfric's best men would believe the words of a random letter. It's outright madness. Furthermore, Laila is one the most loyal of Ulfric's followers, they've worked together for so long."

"Apparently, the Legion contracted the thieves' guild in Riften to make some other 'official' notes and spread town gossip that just happened to be in the right places… and the right pockets. Also, their ties with Black-Briars mead industry helped. The Guild appreciated the imperials large donation of gold. And the food they promised that Windhelm would be supplying."

"Okay, so what happens next?"

"Well, once the five men return to report the news, the idea is Ulfric is going to charge down from Windhelm himself. Either because he knows Tullius will be there and he now has troops who are armed and ready in Riften or because he wants bludgeon those same soldiers to death for committing treason against his cause," he chuckled at his joke. "Either way, he wants to be the one to split Tullius head open personally. So he's going to take a small complement of his best men to storm in and kill the general with the troops in Riften. Because he is counting on his troops in Riften he won't take many of his own men. He also still thinks Darkwater Crossing is safe so we know what route he'll be taking and around how many people he'll have. Now this is where the ambush comes into play..."

"But, wait, I'm still at a lose. All Ulfric has to do is contact one of the Riften guards or the Jarl and they can assure him no such treaty exists."

"As I mentioned, the blockade has stopped communication between the two holds for months now. Not to mention, I heard The Guild was very extensive in covering all their bases. One of 'em even paralyzed the steward and took her place just to give the troops considerable doubts. Considering how much time that has passed since they last communicated it's only natural that Ulfric's faith would be marred. Hell, the siege itself justifies the unification of Riften and the Imperials."

"The Jarl is worried that her people will die under siege and would rather join the Impearls." The more Gurder thought about the plan the more she realized how intricate this plan was.

"The Jarl doesn't won't stand to see her people die and Ulfric has every reason to believe that that's what is happening. Not to mention, the man is outright bloodthirsty. Any chance Ulfric gets he takes."

She crossed her arms taking much umbrage with the whole situation. "Fine. So Imperials are gonna ambush them and what, kill everyone, right?"

"The plan is to capture them and move them all to Helgan."

"Helgan?"

"Nearest place with a chopping block. You see, Tullius also wants to be there to see Ulfric's head roll. So Helgan makes the most sense. They have aligned themselves with the Legion, are a short distance away from Darkwater Crossing. Also Tullius, up in Solitude, will have safe transit there too."

The chairs creaked back then forth in contemplation.

"So how long before this all takes place?" Gurder asked

"The Ulfric's convoy is still on their way back to Windhelm. Taking into account the government there, and the imperials this could happen anytime from a month to a year from now.

"A year!?"

"Maybe even several, these things tend to take time."

"And then it's—"

"The axe in Helgan," he reiterated.

"That's plenty of time to stop this."

Lucan looked down mournfully at the stew. Gurder expressed pain in a very different way than he imagined she would. She seemed almost distant but still hopeful. He would be sure to prey to Stendarr for her brother Relof's safety. Having someone as close as a brother be killed in a matter of days, or months, or even years was something he could not begin to comprehend. The only family he had left was Camilla. She was safe with him, though, not off fighting a war. Still, she had yet to come home… probably off with one of the boys again.

As if on cue, the doors opened and Camilla walked through clutching several coins in her hands that she quickly slipped into her pockets. No one seemed to notice. Though why were Gurder and Arvel in her house?

"Camilla, where have you been? Were you off with—"

"Lucan!" Gurder yelled finally snapping. "I appreciate what you're doing but please be quiet for a moment! This is very important."

"No need to yell." He grumbled to himself as he turned back to his cooking.

The group seemed to be very lively through the window which Finnick watched. He had given coins to the lady who saw him be quite. A trick Rorick had taught him when Finnick had accidently yelled too loud when they were playing Red Mountains past bedtime. His father never found out why his elbows were red the next day.

The Lady had moved closer to the man making food now and they seemed to be whispering about something. The man pointed to the shelf at a tall stack of bowls on the counter. She walked over to it and picked up the bowls while knocking over something shiny and gold to the floor with a loud crash. Finnick ducked briefly, he could almost hear the commotion from outside the window. When he came back up Gurder had whipped around to yell at the cook. While Arvel, still sitting, reached down, picked up the object, stared at it for a moment, then handed it back to the clumsy lady. The conversation resumed: pointing, talking, lips moving and words were spoken that were impossible for Finnick to hear. Then a final point, Gurder's finger, at the door. Arvel got up and moved on his way, only to be stopped and handed some bread and ale from the other lady. He drank and ate furiously and moved towards the door. Finnick made sure to counsel himself as best as he could before he heard the door open and the elf sped off into the twilight. Tonight he would have an unintended follower close behind.

* * *

Night had fallen over Skyrim. A new world emerged lit with wandering fireflies hidden amongst the nightshade. A Luna Moth flapped up into the sky to greet his mistresses hanging among the stars. At this height the forest became a soup of creature and foliage. Nothing was readily distinguishable. But why look down when the light above beckoned? The Ladies of the Sky looked so luminesced in a passionate fashion such that maintaining this altitude was perhaps the most important moment that ever crossed the moth. It ended, though, wings grew heavy and the ground suddenly became much more appealing. A formidable looking oak seemed like an ideal landing spot. That is until the noises started. A footstep sounded far off in the distance. They clunked about tearlessly, stirring the broth. Perhaps a higher limb would be better.

Finnick's eyes remained ahead of him at all times. He shoved and ducked his way through the many tree branches that lay in his path. The darkness made maneuvering through this forest nearly impossible. But he would not risk losing the elf. Thinking back on it, this was likely the most foolhardy thing he has ever done… without Rorick's help, that is. If he couldn't find the courier he would probably starve and die in this forest. Thankfully, Arvel's boots left a nice track of imprints for Finnick to follow. That is until they went separate ways. Finnick, in a huddle of confusion, stopped to catch his breath.

"Huh? How's that possible?"

The trail ended at a large tree where it seemed like one footprint went right and the other one went left. From his perspective it looked like Arvel had ran into a greatsword and split right down the middle, the two parts moving in opposite directions.

"You really thought I couldn't see you through that window?" A voice called from the trees.

Finnick jumped out of his skin. He spun around to face a tree behind him. One he didn't even notice before. Finnick's eyes scanned up the bark until his eyes met the figure. Sure enough sitting on one of the high branches was Arvel putting on his left boot.

"That's how you did it!" Finnick called pointing to the trails. "You took off a boot, wow!"

Arvel pushed himself off the limb and onto the ground. "And here I was thinking you didn't understand the concept of a window," sarcasm spilling from his lips.

Finnick looked at the man up and down again. He was clad in a leather armor that left his knees exposed to help him move easily. Then there where his blue shoulders jutting from the tops of it his half covered chest. Hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He reminded Finnick of someone he knew quite well.

"Do you know a guy named Ravam?"

Arvel walked ahead of him a looked down one of the paths he created. He turned back to the conversation his boots clapping on the forest floor. "Ravam? Yeah, we're brothers."

"Really?!"

"No, of course not. Never heard the name before in my life."

Finnick thought that sounded like something Ravam would say.

Arvel returned to looking down the pathway then the elf whipped around impatiently. "So did you follow me out here to ask annoying questions or did you actually have something useful to say?" his hands popped with gestures to emphases his confusion. "Not like the people here care much for me anyway. So what's it, lad? Why ya follon' me?"

That seemed like such a strange thing to say. To Finnick, it was obvious that everyone respected this man. The townspeople treated him like a hero. The way they all watched him and held important secret meetings with him, it was like living in a story. Arvel was like a walking or running, role model.

"I just wanted to meet you."

"…and so you have."

"And I really want to be like you!"

He scoffed. First time anyone ever said that to a courier. "Be like me? Boy, no one wants to be like me— _I_ don't even want to be like me."

"But you're great! Did you see the way everyone looked at you when you came into to town? That was so cool! The everyone just… became silent and you… appeared! Then Gurder asked to talk to you in private about… your map! Everyone loves you."

A loose hand came to up to cover his gaining face. Such astringe conclusions derived from supposition. Barely making full strides he placed himself up against a tree and laughed.

"They don't love me, kid. They love the information I have. Couldn't care less about who gave it to them. When was the last time you read a storybook where the great and courageous courier saved the day?"

Finnick looked slightly dejected.

"Couriers aren't respected. We were just the leftovers who weren't patient enough to farm and not strong enough to fight. The only thing anyone ever thought about us was that we're fast and could stay that way for long periods of time. It, not a job, at least not one any sane man would choice."

Finnick could feel his saliva became harder to swallow. "…O-oh."

The elf threw his hands up in the air. "You work for whatever town will take you. And become the person slave of everyone in it. A luxury that's taken for granted. You become a tool, a convenience. Nobody cares about couriers."

Finnick had his head down low like an animal that had been lectured for bad behavior. Then he raised his head and asked the only question he could think of.

"Why are you getting mad at me?"

The words hit Arvel in an unusual way. He had gotten caught up in another one of his cynical tirades and with a child no less. It had been a long journey and he was tried. Divines, that's no excuse, the boy only wanted to hold on to his praise of the couriers. He had to make this right. Though soothing and cooing weren't his strong suits, logic and facts were. So he thought for a moment and gave it his best shot.

"No, no, I'm not mad at you. You just didn't let me finish. Nobody cares about couriers…" His own hands were prompting himself to think of something quick. "And that's why I'm gonna make them."

Finnick felt his eyes grow bigger with anticipation. "Huh? How?"

"Um… by giving myself a name, no _a title_! The people don't remember Arvel the for-hire courier, but they will know… Arvel the… Swift: fastest damn courier in all of Tamriel!" This honestly wasn't turning out half-bad for improvisation. The name had a sort of ring to it.

"Yeah!" Finnick cheered.

"Yeah!" He copied the boy's enthusiasm.

The Elf's big hands were now pushing him around to face the other direction. "Now, go back to your bed, just follow those tracks there and cross the river where you see all the big lights. I'm sure you'll have lovely dreams about people running places." He spoke as quickly as he could so the boy would not have any time to object

"No, I want to go with you." Finnick turned around and hugged the man.

Damn it.

"P-Please, stop that." Strangely, the kid responded as if he had just cracked a whip or something. "Listen, you're what, eight, maybe nine years old?"

"I'm eleven!" Finnick shouted like a solder responding to his commander.

"Fine, eleven years old. A boy like you should be with his parents not with a stranger he hardly knows."

"My mom's in Whiterun and my Dad's left me on an island once. For a week, so if I leave he probably won't look for me for... a week."

"Wait, an island?"

"Yes, my Dad is… was captain of the Sea Squall!" Finnick was so excited that his role model was taking an interest in his life. "I was raised on that ship all my life. One, day, we were out at sea and my dad…"

The kid continued to tell his story about… something. Ship-raised though, he was probably a strong and capable lad, probably used to roughing it. The trip was only to Helgan and back. Nothing dangerous either just had to make an appeal to one of the guards there to allow some of the Stormcloaks who were to be captured at Darkwater Crossing to be freed. Yes, it was pointless venture but Gurder wouldn't pay him from his last errand until he returned. The trip would take two days at the most. What was he thinking though? This was a defenseless kid. He can't take him there. Nature can be downright deadly at times.

"Sorry, I'm not risking you getting hurt on this trip. I don't need that on my conscience."

Finnick whipped out his blade from his side. "I can defend myself."

The elf leaned forward to take a closer look at the blade. The craftsmen ship was impeccable. The blade had been emblazoned with "F." It diluted the killing aspect of the blade and made it seem more like a piece of Nordic Art. Looking back, Arvel the Swift remembered how life was when he first fled the eruption in Morrowind. All he had with him was a dagger and a loaf of bread. This kid was kinda like him, a rock, a little rough around the edges but if he spent enough time in a stream of knowledge he smoothen out.

"So that means I can go now. Right, Arvel the Swift?"

Arvel the Swift folded his arms and looked over his shoulder. "I guess I don't see a problem with it. But if your dad asks this was your idea."

"Yay! Thank you so much!" Finnick went to hug him but remembered last time and stopped short.

"Okay, were not gonna be stopping until we reach Helgan so if you have any questions you should ask them now."

Finnick raised a hand to his chin and thought. "But I have so many?"

"Pick one." He enunciated his words with carful precision.

"Two."

"Fine, pick two questions."

"Alright, earlier you said ' _I_ don't even want to be me.' And then you said, 'We were whelps who never got our chance.' Why did you say that?"

A personal question. This wasn't exactly what Arvel the Swift had in mind but whatever the kid wanted to hear.

"Okay, I guess that's fair. I just always just thought that I'd do better than this. I always saw myself using my intelligence to uncovering some great treasure or lexicon or something. But, it never happened, no one ever saw me as intelligent. I got robbed of what little gold I had so I took up this job. I thought it would give me some adventure but it gets old fast." Without even looking Arvel the Swift sensed the boy disappointment. "But that's just because I was freelance if you go to any of the holds and take the oath you can be sworn in as a true courier, much more adventures there."

"Really?"

"Bah, tons of them. If you work for one of the holds you become the voice and ears of a significant part of Skyrim. And it's not just the Jarls letters you'll be delivering but the people in that hold will send you all over from place to bloody place, even those of the opposite faction."

"Wow! I want to work for a hold one day." Finnick's head shot upwards looking to the sky. However, the many trees surrounding them obscured the view of his proverbial sea of endless possibilities. His head moved back down, anticlimactically, to face Arvel "and okay, my second question—"

"Nope, you already got two. 'Why did you say that?' and 'Really?' We don't have time for any more of this back-and-forth." The boy's smile stuck in Arvel's head for a little bit longer than it should have for someone trying to remain distant. He shook it off and began the walk in the direction of Helgan.

"One last thing before we go," Arvel Said, holding up a branch for Finnick to follow. "Let me see that dagger of yours."

"Sure." Finnick placed the blade in the man's hand and ducked, walking on ahead. The man followed behind him, flipping the dagger from side to side admiring its craft again.

"Rule one, you just gave your only weapon to complete stranger, that's stupid and will get you gutted. Rule two, daggers are typically weak weapons that require extremely close range to be used properly."

"That sounds like an observation." Finnick corrected.

"Just listen, boy," He kicked Finnick's leg lightly from behind. "No one in all of Skyrim ever expects someone with a dagger to be able to hit them from ten paces away. That's about as long as a horse and carriage."

"You'd need a _big_ dagger," he agreed.

"Or a good arm. Daggers are the lightest of weaponry currently known to the world."

"What about arrows?"

"That's funny, I thought I said 'just listen.'" He shot Finnick a glare that made the boy dutifully cup his hands over his mouth and stare. Responds well to force, noted. As he tossed the dagger up and down in his hands, checking the weight of the weapon, he continued talking. "They can be thrown with great ease. No one expects a weapon that requires such a close range to be effective over long distances. Right as the bloke is charging at you can stick him right in his blessed forehead! Although, if you miss, that bloke will go straight through you, do you understand?"

Silence.

"Divines! When I ask you a question you can bloody well answer me." Arvel slapped the back of Finnick's head just hard enough to knock the hands from his mouth, hiding the part of him that was amused with the boy's sense of humor.

Finnick smiled at how angry Ravem… Arvel was. "Yeah, I got it."

"If you practice throwing that blade ten times a day you'll be safe for the rest of your life."

 _The rest of my life?_ Now there was a thought that had been going through Finnick's mind a lot recently. Old friends gone, new, older ones replaced them. Cold old home was gone, new warm one. But, what was going to happen to Finnick? Would he take the lack luster path of his father and enjoy life's simpler offerings. Or would he take the dedicated and prestigious mindset his mother embodied? Maybe he was here to forge his own path. Growing older is scary in Skyrim. Life can pass you by in an instant if you're not careful. The best way to get through it is to identify what your dreams are and if your skills lend you to follow them. And following, running, chasing, sprinting! That was something Finnick was very good at.

[End of Chapter]


	5. Lament

**Chapter 4**

 **Lament**

I am lost.

I feel as though the stone of my body has been cast far out into a great lake. The sunlight leaves it as it sinks ever steadily beneath the surface. As it descends, the stone is gripped by the darkness that surrounds it like the walls of a crucible. Such wax-poetry must seem quite childish for a man of my age, but I know no other ways to describe this feeling. And I do not mean it as bleak or as drab as it may sound. See, the stone may be lost; encircled in a blackness but it continues to drop. It moves. Much like myself, I still run. To what sandy depth awaits me I know not but it's all The Chill has left me with.

Now, do not mistake me. I am not a mere boy who is fearfully fleeing from danger. No, not anymore at least. It's not that I do not want to lash out against my oppressor but it's not that simple. The Chill more than a monster it's a sensation. It kills all, it hates all, and it lusts for domination. The actions taken by The Chill cannot be misinterpreted as meaningful displays of preservation, for none benefit from its presence. Though, if nothing else, The Chill is equal in its punishment. It does not discriminate The Chill bends all of us to abide by its way. That is why I continue to race away from my icy master. Though it begins to dawn on me, running gets me nowhere. I have to find a way to beat The Chill, a way to rid the world of it for good.

A way to conquer cold. Such an answer could only be so obvious, fire. Even The Chill has its weakness, the heat. Oh, how I wish it was that simple. You see, despite fires power it too is still at the mercy of the chill. For when the great scholars meet to talk over their cryptic scrolls they talk of fire as the outlier. They say the world was birthed into cold and that fire came later. It is for this same reason why entities do not get colder, only lose heat. You see, heat is valuable, flames have to be created, and fires these days are hard to start. But still, I believe a roaring inferno could definitely dissolve our dictators.

I mustn't forget how to make a fire; it may be our only hope. To build a fire, one must gather logs, right? But they can't all be the same log, some need to be bigger, some have to be smaller, and then there are those with dead leaves that are still attached, those burn well. You must unite the logs so that they are facing inwards, to their common goal… But this is as far as my knowledge takes me. Perhaps this was not as clever as an analogy as I originally thought it to be. Divines, how I wish I were a smarter man. Gathering logs and aligning them together doesn't make a fire, just a pile. You need something to start the fire, a spark, or maybe a catalyst. But that doesn't make any sense. How am I to know where to find such power in the world? I am still such a simple man. Although, I do have two things can depend on to carry me forward. I know that every step I take means I leave others behind to suffer a fate similar to his. But what's there to say? It's all I am left with. Running buys me time, running allows me to gather more logs, running brings me hope, and above all, running is the one thing I am good at.

[End of Chapter]

* * *

 **A/N: Hey, everybody! It's your favorite author once again resurrected from the dead! Gonna try for double post this week. We'll see how that plays out between structuring my life in tandem with my job but I'll do my best. Hope you all enjoyed this transitionary piece. I know it was short but trust me, things are about to get good! Like seriously, now that all that preamble is out of the way we can finally have some fun! Until next post my dearest readers, stay hyped!  
**


	6. Frostbite

**Chapter 5:**

 **Frostbite**

Finnick's feet struck the snowy ground sending a small flurry of ice crystals in the air. His entire body shook with each plus his heart sent out as he raced up the snowy incline.

 _Please. Stop. Chasing. Me!_

This lone thought echoed inside his mind as the frozen air shredded his lungs. Hopefully, this mountain would prove to be too high of a root for his pursuers to take. Although, being a frost covered slope meant that any hope of trees to hide behind had died out many seasons ago. He could at least take solace in the warmth his layered clothes provided during his ascent.

Finnick's legs began to grow heavy as he continued to sprint up the steep incline as fast as he could manage, his footing nearly faltering more than once. The trek would have been far easier if the mountain wasn't covered in many amorphous boulders cast beneath a shroud of snow. After what felt like a climb that should have been documented in a famous scroll for its lengthy duration, the ground finally ceased to go any higher. The peak of the terrestrial beast was pretty level for a mountain. In fact, it was hardly a peak at all. It was almost as if someone had taken a normal mountain and cut the very top of it off. There were a few bumps in the ground here and there, but overall it was quite flat.

His sprinting quickly turned into a walk. He was not about to fall down this landmass due to careless footing. While taking what were probably unnecessarily slow steps, Finnick maneuvered to the edge opposite the side he had just climbed up. He needed a way to escape if they tracked him up here. From this height, there was really only one other option.

"No way I'd survive that," he said, as his eyes met with the formidable drop that connected the mountain to the ground.

With that option officially off the table, Finnick's gaze moved outward so that he could see off into the distance. On the horizon the sun had just begun to rise, meeting with a furrowed treeline of the forest below. The woods sat a few feet from the mountain's base and ran out far beyond what he could see. Thick branches laced together in a canopy were accented with a soft orange haze from the sun. Had Finnick been viewing this scene at any other moment in his life he might have taken more time to appreciate the sheer beauty of the vista. But right now all he could think about was how a dense forest would have made a much better place to hide than the top of the cliff. He had been too panicked and too tried to think straight. Right of the forest was the dirt path he had been traveling along, nobody along it to call for help. Not like anyone could hear him from up here anyway.

There was nothing left to do but wait and see what would happen. A tasked that proved far more difficult than he thought it would. The wintery chill felt nine times stronger here than it was back on the ground. Furthermore, the air here was purged of its oxygen. How long was he to wait up here? How long _could_ he wait up here? With hopes thrashed, Finnick exhaled sullenly. At least the sunrise was nice.

 _With any luck, they won't be able to find me up here._

As if in answer to his thoughts the loud bounds of clawed paws striking the snow echoed from the rear. The sound was followed by a series of grunts that seemed to be getting louder until, eventually, the steps and grunts hushed in a foreboding manner.

"Oh, please don't be up here." Finnick turned around to survey his new situation. Three pairs of eyes stared back at him.

During his trip, he had accidently crossed some invisible line of wolf territory a crime that was apparently an unforgivable offense in their culture. This pack of three wolves had been chasing him long enough to make a high cliff look like a viable means of escape. The trio of white-maned beasts now had spread themselves out atop the side of the peak opposite Finnick, all three crouched with low, menacing snarls.

Finnick carefully backed up two steps, the only amount he could on a cliff this small. His knees were bent, ready to dive out of the way if needed. And as a final act of preparation, he tugged the leather strap that ran diagonally across his torso to reveal three holstered knives. Sliding the top one from its sheath, he held it the way Arvel had taught him: hilt out and elbow pointed at his target.

Despite all this, Finnick still found himself at a disadvantage. His targets had spread themselves evenly so that there was one wolf on his right and left and one wolf directly in front of him. As soon as he attacked one of the wolves the others would surely strike. What to do?

The four stood at the peak of the mountain in a complete standstill, each side taking in the situation. All these creatures needed was a single second of broken focus and then anyone of them could spring for the kill.

A growl broke this thought process. It sounded like it was coming from the left wolf. If it kept growling this way Finnick would be able to roughly judge where it was without having to focus on it. Though it isn't easy to look away from something that sounds so death beckoning. With a great amount of reserve, he stayed focused on the center wolf keeping the other two on the borders of his vision.

 _AHrrowl!_ The left wolf cried out louder than before.

Something about this wolf was off, it acted more provoked than any of its cohorts. The creature stared at him with eyes that showed unmistakable hate. Finnick turned his attention to this wolf while still maintaining a stance ready to deal with the one on the opposite side. The creature he was looking at bore a scar on its nose that resembled the shape of a crescent. The weird thing was it looked like a recent scar only a day or so old. The mark was probably testimony to the creature's fits of rage if not its tendency to get in fights.

As if out of overenthusiastic joy for the impending fight the wolf then made a leaped forward, declaring its attack.

Finnick reacted in seconds launching his arm clasping the knife forward. At the apex of the throw he stopped and held onto the knife, something was wrong. The wolf hadn't committed to its lunge. It had stopped. It was barely half the distance towards him. Then he felt the cold realization. He had left himself completely vulnerable. The unmistakable sound of paws pushing off the snow stood out all the more in the silence of the moment.

 _The one on the right!_ Finnick's body snapped in synchronicity with his thoughts. Using his fingers, he managed to flip the knife around in his hand so that the blade faced outward, but his reaction was a second too slow.

A mixture of skull and claws crashed into the courier sending him careening across the peak.

Leather scraped against the powdered covered plateau as Finnick slid blindly toward the edge. The snow began to pile up against his side creating a small buffer to hold him in place.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself now looking skyward and was unsure of where he was in relation to the cliff or worse yet, the wolves. Acting on instinct alone, his hands pushed against the ground to get himself back to his feet. He faltered and his side smacked back into the ground, his right hand had failed to find anything solid push against.

 _So, that would be the edge._ Finnick thought with one arm hanging over what would surely be a fatal drop.

In the same moment, his other arm erupted in pain as he felt sharp teeth dig into his skin. He cried out in agony as he tried to bring his arm close to him, a bad decision.

He was met face to face with the scarred wolf its jaw clenched around his arm. For a brief moment, the two locked eyes and there was an odd exchanged of fear and rage. The moment ended when the wolf began to flail its head ripping at the arm. The feeling of the enamel based daggers lubricating themselves on his own blood warranted more than a scream of pain. Finnick's body went tight with fear and he did the first thing that came to mind. He reached his free arm up from the side of the cliff and struggled to push the beast off him.

The snowy wolf resisted the boy efforts well. Her feet firmly planted on the ground as she clenched her jaw hard to deter the prey from fighting back.

With all his effort, Finnick tugged the snared arm rightwards, toward the edge, and gave the beast one final shove, just below the ribcage. The wolf's toppled over to her side tripping over the boy's body and over the edge. Having put little to no thought into this action, Finnick was left breathless when he felt the weight of the still attached wolf flip him sideways and slowly begin to drag him off the plateau.

"GODS! No no no. Stendarr save m—"

Finnick was unable finished his sentence. There were no words. No action he could make to contest his fate. He simply fell.

His vision tumbled as he rolled down the side of the mountain. In the flurry of movement, he could see the peak and then ground, a much further away peak and a much closer ground. Everything else was a disorienting mix of white snow that he and the wolf had kicked up. Thankfully, though the furred creature had released him early on in the fall. Finnick felt his body give up and go limp. Moving the only muscles he could still control, Finnick shut his eyes. All it would take would be one of those buried rocks he had seen earlier and that would end him. Eyes open or not, he wouldn't see it coming either way.

The wind seared his frosted face as he kept rolling and gaining speed before his back crashed into something very hard.

His eyes still closed, showed a world of blackness. This did not make the pain seem any less real. His body had gone numb from plummeting down the frozen cliffside and his arm reeled in unbearable pain. Finnick forced his eyes open and tried to make sense of the double vision he was looking at.

He saw what seemed to be the bottom of the cliff dancing around in place. Right of that, he noticed what looked like a thick black pole, most likely a tree from the forest he had seen earlier. Finnick tried to move to his feet but felt an explosion of pain and fell back against the solid object the kept him propped upward, also most likely a tree. Thankfully, there was no sign of the wolf who had dragged him off the edge.

The young man's eyes wavered to look at his damaged arm. His black tunic had been ripped open just below the end of the sleeve. From here it was hard to assess how much damage he had sustained. He gritted his teeth and peeled back the cloth, pretending not to be able to hear the gelatinous sound of cloth separating itself from skin and blood.

"Owe, oh that is a _lot_ of my blood…I-I think" moaned Finnick, looking at the oddly shaped bit mark that ran along the side of his arm. The beast had still tried to hold on for life when he had shoved it off the side of the cliff, leaving long jagged cuts along his arms. The gashes looked like brilliant artistic strokes of dark crimson on a skin canvas. Looks, however, could not compare to the feeling. The thought of having the tooth marks imprinted on the bone seemed like an apt metaphor for the amount of pain he was in.

Finnick's "good arm" felt heavy as he dragged it across his body to his left side and felt along his hip. His hand brushed the top of the dagger strapped there, the same one his friend had made for him many years ago.

"No, it's the other side."

Finnick wasn't quite sure if this dizziness was from the endless tumble or a significant loss of blood. His right arm reached down by his side to unlatch the satchel strapped there. His hand made contact with a papery object, a grainy object, and glass object. He pulled out the pink bottle from the satchel. He must have been more injured than he thought, as his arm barely held the potion still.

"The last one."

After a few dizzy misses he sunk his teeth into the cork and pulled the top off of it, swallowing half of the bottle's thick, sweet nectar. He felt his head clear as his vision returned to normal. Finnick's eyes now looked down at his arm and then back at the bottle.

"This… is gonna hurt."

He poured half of what remained in the bottle on the laceration. Finnick winced in the sudden burning and itching sensation that now spread down the arm. When he opened his eyes his wound had completely closed with new skin and everything. He turned his arm over and repeated the same process on the underside of his arm where the wolf's lower fangs had sunken in.

"Next time I see Rustleif, I'll be the one telling the story." Finnick chuckled to himself as he sat, still laid up against the tree, and waited for the other wound to close. When it had done so, he rolled up the sleeve to its original position taking pride in his meager knowledge of medicine.

"Hey, Rorick!" Finnick called out to no one. "Didn't cry this time either!"

To his dismay, his call was answered with bone-chilling howl.

"Again? Oh, don't do this," begged Finnick, suddenly really starting feel like crying.

A lot can be said about these wolves that chased the courier but one thing is for sure, they were determined. The two remaining snowy hunters managed to ford down the way they had come and were now rounding the side of the mountain ready to kill their query.

Finnick eyed the creatures still unable to stand from his position against the tree. They were about a bridge's distance away which wasn't much considering their speed. He reached for the dagger Rorick had given him and drew it from its sheath. The hilt still felt so comfortable in Finnick's hand. He held his arm forward and prepared to make a stand.

"I remember when you guys used to—used to scare me." Finnick taunted, his words teetered with confidence.

The two snow wolves raced at him at break-neck speeds and straight for their wounded prey. When suddenly, the closer of the two wolves stopped and shuddered in pain, before falling to its side.

 _What in the name of Stendarr?_

Finnick looked at the dead creature to try register what had just happened.

 _Was that an arrow?_

This, however, did not discourage the second wolf in the slightest. The creature continued to charge Finnick. It paused within a body's length from his resting spot and lunged at him, mouth fully ajar.

Despite the application of the potion, Finnick still couldn't muster the strength to stab at the creature. All the boy could do was close his eyes. From within the black vail, he heard the most gut-wrenching squish followed by a small splash of warm liquid on his face.

When he opened his eyes the sight that befell him was quite unusual. The profile of an imperial guard was standing over him with the white wolf skewered through the torso on the end of a long two-handed sword. The soldier brought up the boot of their brutishly heavy armor and kicked the beast off the end of the blade. Then, after sheathing the bloodstained sword, the heavy-set warrior turned to face Finnick, a hand was stretched out to help him up.

"Citizen, can you stand?" an austere voice asked.

He nodded unconfidently. Sheathing the dagger, Finnick's had weakly reached out and grabbed the hand in front of him. His savior forced him to his feet with an abundance of strength that sent a slight pain down his back.

"Yeah, I think I can. How did you g…"

Finnick met the eyes of the helmetless warrior. To his surprise, they were not the typical imperial legionnaire but rather a redguard and a woman. She looked to be a few cycles older than him. Her dark brown eyes read the utmost serious expression. The same feeling of militancy also reflected in the tightly wound bun that sat atop her head.

"I'm auxiliary legionnaire, Nickita Genawa." She stated formally. The warriors faced shifted countenance as it in took every aspect of the person she had just dragged to his feet.

The crude stare ran over what he had been referring to his as the commoner's doublet which consisted of a tidily green vest that had been layered over a relatively heavy black tunic. The bottom of which was complemented by black linen pants, at least in terms of color. The ensemble was tied together with a pair of shoes so tattered looking the seams pleaded to be cut free. However, the most notable part of his attire, at least in the legionaries' eyes, was the harness that ran over the top of his vest that currently holding two iron daggers.

"I'm Finnick Wayfinder," the words came out less like an introduction and more like he was reading an unfamiliar passage in a book. "Courier of Whiterun hold." Finnick waited for the women's expression to shift but she was still looking at him like she expected to hear something more.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Thank you so much for saving my life. That was really an amazing move back there." Finnick looked to the wolf that was laying on the ground. It appeared to be the one that took the center position back atop the cliff. He returned his eyes to the women, whose face still held the expression of someone without trust.

"A courier you say?" She began in the same harsh tone, "Tell me, what's a messenger doing this far away from his designated path?" Her expression hardened into a more judgmental one. Probably the same one she used when she was interrogating the filth of the Skyrim.

"HEY! NICKY! DID WE SAVE HIM!?" A voice far-off called out.

Finnick eyes darted leftward toward the source of the yelling. His gaze met with nothing but the cliffs side. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught brutish warrior mutter something while rubbing an armored hand across her forehead.

"YEAH! HE'S FINE!" She yelled over her shoulder while maintaining eye contact with the so-called courier.

The snowy crunch of footsteps sounded as the person who had been shouting drew nearer.

Finnick attempted to look around the women in front of him to see whom she had been calling to when he saw the body of the second wolf. An arrow had pierced its lobe. Finnick didn't recognize the wolf he was staring which probably meant it was the creature that took the rightmost position, the one that knocked him to the ground. Whoever was coming, must have been the same person who killed that wolf. There is no way that this warrior could have made that shot and seconds later stabbed the other wolf, at least not while dawned in that armor.

"Great," the voice answered, much closer now. "Another life saved, another thank you letter from the general right, Nicky?" A fair-skinned elf materialized from behind the warrior. He was wearing a simple set of layered clothes with a green cowl that was pulled down to reveal hair that fell just past the shoulders. Both him and the warrior appeared to be around Finnick's age, maybe slightly older.

"You call me that again and I will…"

The elf side-stepped around the women, mid threating speech, and came up to meet Finnick.

"Hi, there." He spoke warmly and considerably more friendly than the women. "A pleasure to meet you. You'll have to excuse my friend here. Judging by the stiff stance," he looked Finnick over from head to toe, "You probably got the ' _I'm auxiliary legionnaire, Nickita Genawa_ ' speech, right?"

"Um yeah, that's it," he nodded "word-for-word actually."

"Ahhhhh," the elf's silvery hair spun around as he looked over his shoulder to Nickita. Both sides of his mouth rolled upwards into a smug grin as he spoke in a slow, over-enunciated fashion,

"Word-for-word."

"Be quiet!"

"Anyway," The man returned his attention to Finnick, taking a more official tone. "You can call me, Galen. Very nice to meet you Mr.?" He extended his hand.

"Finnick," he answered laying way into a deceptively strong handshake. It was during the shake that Finnick saw the bow that was strapped to the man's back, accompanied by a meek quiver of arrows. This officially confirmed his "who shot the wolf" theory. However, a new mystery had arisen: this man didn't look like an imperial soldier at all, so what was he doing traveling with one?

"And that's how you case a threat, Nicky." Galen ended the handshake. "You should try being more friendly. If you just stare at them with that draconian glare of yours, they'll only act more suspect."

The legionnaire crossed her arms over her chest plate. "I'm not gonna be soft with a potential killer."

"Killer? Nickita, he was just being attacked by wolves."

"That's circumstantial."

"Just look at him. He doesn't even have any armor on just a common set of clothes." The elf motioned to Finnick's unprotected yet warm clothing choice.

"You look, twig." She said moving uncomfortably close to the courier. "He's got blood on those clothes, armed with at least three daggers, and his story's shaky. _That_ constitutes a threat in my book."

Finnick looked down to where the legionnaire had pointed. Sure enough, there was darkish stain right of his heart. When did that happen? Not mention, only three daggers. There should've been four. He searched himself from head to toe. The top dagger from harness was missing. The wolf that crashed into him back atop the cliff. That must have been when he dropped it.

The Elf sucked in a deep breath of exasperated defeat. "Okay then, your call, Nicky. What do we do?" His arms folded into a relaxed mood as he laid himself against the base of a nearby tree.

"First, we get you to show some respect. Stop calling me, Nicky!"

"Another order… got it."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Yup." The elf answered in a voice that was hard to tell if had been or was currently being sarcastic.

"Make no mistake, I will snap you, twig."

"Um, wait, I-excuse me, uh Ms. Genawa." While the couple's temper had had been rising Finnick had been thinking of a way to explain himself to the warrior and her cohort. Well, he now had her attention… every harsh, bone-chilling fiber of it.

"Well, the thing is, I know I'm a long way from Whiterun but you see I've got this really import letter to deliver from Ivarstead. It's taken three couriers just to get it here. I just happen to be the last leg of the journey and when they told me about it—

She held up a hand. "Spare me the exposition."

Finnick shook his head. "On my run, I ran into some wolves and they chased me out here. The knives are well… for self-defense. As for the blood, I hope—I mean I know it got there when you saved a life just now." He ended on a shaky note.

Galen shot forth from the tree and looked to Nickita. "Wow that story sounds, what are the words?... perfectly reasonable. Yes, yes those are the words."

The warrior ignored him and leaned in so that she was only a nose's distance away from the suspect. "Okay then, let me see the letter."

Finnick jerked his body away from her, put his side where his satchel was strapped up against a tree. Couriers are told to keep all letters unseen by anyone who wasn't the recipient or the courier themselves... But this was a special case. Once this soldier saw the blazonry on the letter she would have to let him go. No, Finnick wasn't about to break his oath. Especially not with _this_ letter. Whatever time was wasted here he could surely make up on his own two feet. Finnick prepared to stand his ground.

"I-I'm sorry, but I can't let you see it."

The warrior named Nickita seemed almost pleasantly delighted with his answer. "Suits me. Then by the order of the—"

"Submit, Nickita," Galen jabbed her in the arm in a manner that seemed to hurt him more than her. "Couriers follow a strict 'show none but the recipient' code when it comes to letters." He paused looking at Finnick once more. "Any thief or brigand would have sooner produced a forgery. I'd say you owe him an apology."

She looked at him with an expression that mixed elements of annoyance and disbelief. It was one matter to have the prowess of her criminal profiling abilities called into question but to have her own follower be the one to do so. How had he known what rules couriers are to follow?

"Oh stop giving me that look. I read it in one those things you use to test the sharpness of your blades. Believe the common folk call 'em books."

Nickita huffed angrily, upset that her conviction had been rebuked. She appeared motionless for a few seconds considering the situation thoroughly. Upon reaching a conclusion, she acted in a way that conveyed the utmost sense of disdain. Backing away from Finnick so that she was now aligned with the elf. Her eyes held the same serious expression as before.

"I'm sorry…" She stopped short looking to her cohort.

"Finnick" Galen finished for her.

She looked back to the courier. "Finnick. However, I do not apologize for handling my job with care. You are now free to leave."

"Deveins, Nicky! Contract bone break fever backhanding that out?"

Nickita glared at Galen.

Well, this was certainly an odd turn of events for Finnick. The person who had just saved his life was now about to get into a fight over a poor apology. If anything he should be the one apologizing for his inability to escape danger properly. That's a basic requirement of being a courier.

"No, really, it was a fine apology!" Finnick stated, interrupting their staring contest. "But I have to, you know, got important deliveries to make. Oh and I'm sorry for all the trouble, Legionnaire Genawa."

Nickita looked Finnick over for the second time. For whatever reason, she seemed to carry more malleus than before, if that was even possible.

Finnick nervously smiled back. Then he remembered the reason he had come all the way out here in the first place. He was still a courier. Albeit a slightly injured one. Finnick pressed his way between the two of them already having spent enough time in the same spot. He ran back to the dirt path he had been on and looked back to his two saviors.

"But really, thank you both for saving my life." he waved goodbye.

"Wait!" called Galen. "You headed north, to Windhelm?"

"…Yeah." Answered Finnick, remembering the sign he had seen a ways back.

"You see, we're heading but few paces past there," Galen answered. "If you wanted, we could escort you there. I mean, we'd love to have you."

"I wouldn't," Nickita muttered under her breath.

Finnick lightly considered the offer. "Thanks, but I'll move a lot faster on my own."

"No, you won't," Galen called back with a slight musical tone to his words. "I know Skyrim in and out, come with us and we can cut your travel time in half. I know all the shortcuts. Come on, say you'll join us."

"Um well," he wanted to say yes but something about this felt very sudden. "Is it safe?" Finnick asked moving back toward the group.

"More so than these roads. The paths we take are scenic so you won't have to worry about thieves or bandits stealing your letters."

"And if we run into a troll or saber cat?"

Galen motioned to Nickita. "We're more than equipped."

"But you've already done so much for me."

"Please, consider your companionship as payment. Normally we drag around the most unpleasant company."

Finnick thought about the offer more seriously this time. It was urgent that this letter is delivered to Ulfric as soon as possible and these people seemed like the trustworthy type. One was nice and the other was a soldier. But, would this really be a wise choice? Oh, what would Arvel had done in this situation? Probably make some sort of amusing joke out of the at Finnick's expense. None the less, even if there was a small amount of risk involved, it was Finnick's duty as a courier to make sure letters arrived at their destination as quick as possible. If any hitches came up it was his responsibility to deal with them.

"Alright then, let's do it."


	7. Cold Feat

**Chapter 6**

 **Cold Feat**

The trio had been making their way through the woods for quite some time now. They had unified in a single-file line lead by Galen. The line weaved, like a cobblers' sowing needle, through and around the formidable tree trunks that made up the forest. Behind the elf, Finnick followed dutifully enjoying the change of pace from his normal running. When they would stop, he could feel his feet start to sink beneath the snow as he watched Galen survey the area, only to pick up in the same direction. The first time they had done this, Finnick had come to notice a large bag that was strapped to Galen's back. With the addition of having to string his bow around his neck and quiver to his side, the elf was becoming quite the pack mule. Although, the supplies, food, and tools he most likely held in that bag would definitely prove useful in this climate. Hopefully, he left room for a tent, they would need it in this cold.

The sun that Finnick had seen back atop the mountain had long since gone down. At least he was pretty sure it had. Shrouded, leaf-filled, branches, which ran too high up trunk to reach, had intertwined themselves in a canopy-like fashion making the time of day hard to discern. But, something did feel distinctly colder about the world. This is where the conclusion of the sun having gone down was reached.

However, the treetops that separated sky from ground acted as a membrane that laid way into a world of its own. A simplistic world of barky pillars and sheet-white snow that had somehow passed by the leaves. The paleness of the frost stretched endlessly in each direction. Such a void was quite easy to get lost in. Every so often, there was a sound of a bird calling out to its mate or the rattling of twigs could be heard off in the distance. Noises like this were few and far between, leaving a feeling that was tranquil yet barren. This was a place that promised shelter at the cost of orientation: a forgone haven.

After a while of this isolation, Finnick had decided that they had been walking in silence for too long now would be a good time to talk to his companions. After all, it was now considered payment for his rescue.

"Hey, Galen."

"Not now, I think we might have… no, no harder _is_ better if you're going north because it implies that it's colder." The elf let the snow sift through his fingers and plop to the ground.

Finnick wasn't sure what that meant but it didn't sound like anything that critical. Either way, he should do his best to not disturb him. Getting out alive was far more important than the idle chitchat of comrades. Still, he could always talk to the third member of the line if he dared.

Finnick's eyes peered over his shoulders to check behind him. Bringing up the rear of the line was Nickita. At the back, she could run forward at a moment's notice and make sure no harm befell them. And if anything tried to come from behind they'd answer to her. It was a weird feeling for Finnick, he never felt this safe while making a run before.

"Umm, Legionnaire Genawa?" he called.

She answered with a mild-mannered hum whilst keeping her eyes elsewhere.

"So how long have you worked for the imperial legion?"

"Awhile."

Not quite the conversation starter Finnick had hoped it would be. Although, if awhile meant several years then maybe she would know what became of his old friend.

"Oh, um, well I had this friend once, named Rorick, and you see he's a Redguard too."

"And?"

It seemed like Nicketa had a pension for one-worded conversation. Finnick, however, he picked up on something odd in that one word, something that sounded very annoyed.

"Well, _you're_ a Redguard."

The silence in the forest seemed to grow even thicker. That is until Finnick heard the faint sounds of chuckling coming from the head of the line. What was going on? Had he said something funny?

"So what? Because he's a Redguard and I'm a Redguard means we're automatically friends?" She responded in a stiff tone.

"Well maybe not friends but you at least know each other, right?"

Finnick felt a chill run up his spine when he heard the unmistakable sound of Nickita's sword scraping against a leather sheath from behind him. Followed by her flat yet threatening words.

"That does it, Galen. I'm gonna kill him. Right here. Through the chest. Legion be damned."

The elf leading the trio gave a lofty sighed as if he was a parent who was now to resolve a dispute between children. As horrible as whatever was going on back there might have been he really couldn't be bothered with it at the moment. If they lost their bearings in this section of the woods their lives would surely follow.

"If you kill him that renders our little act of heroism back there totally pointless." He eventually responded.

To Finnick's surprise, this seemed to work as the warrior sheathed her blade in response. Still, he was colored with a shade of confusion and worry. Had he said something offensive? Why was there all this talk of his death?

"Oh, forgive me. I didn't know I was being rude."

"Try racist," The legionnaire corrected, sourly. "My skin color does not dictate those who I ally myself with. Same way it doesn't dictate yours."

Going against every logical thought in his mind, Finnick slowed down so that he could walk alongside Nickita. It seemed like she had some actual insight to share on this subject. It is pretty shocking how out of touch with the world couriers can be. There is a small bit of irony in the fact that he always delivers the news but was never allowed to read about it.

"Really? I always thought people of the same race liked each other better." Finnick answered honestly. A comment that warranted him a downcast glare that could pity a rich man.

"And why would you think that?"

Before he had a chance to give an answer Galen shoved his way into the conversation. Apparently, some part of him deemed gushing about his apparent knowledge on the subject more important the leading the group to safety.

"Well let's see. In our history, you have events like The Arnesian War, where sides were drawn upon racial borders. Then we have our more recent state of when the Imperials facing off against the Nordic Stormcloaks, or you could simply look to the Kahjiit who sit together outside the big city walls that they are not allowed to enter. In terms of leadership and judgment, people always stick with their own race."

"Exactly whose side are you on, Galen?" Nickita shot back, slightly perplexed.

A tickled look spread its way across his face. "Well, considering that neither of you two are _bosmer_ , logic suggests that I'm an impartial mediator of sorts."

She rolled her eyes at the elf's sense of humor as he returned to his position at the front of the line.

"Yes. Very funny." The warrior turned her attention back to Finnick. "It's true that people generally feel more comfortable around those who they share things in common with but that doesn't mean we all know or even like each other."

The courier nodded his head. "That makes sense." Finnick was starting to understand her perspective. It's not like he knew every Imperial in existence. Though he often wondered if there was someone out there who did. Maybe a dignitary or acclaimed scholar in the prosperous land of Cryodiil. None the less, his conversation did have a basis for such unintentionally hurtful remarks.

"I only brought it up because last I heard my friend wanted to join the imperials too. I thought if he got in then maybe you knew him."

"Hmm… doubt it, divines know I barely did. Couldn't find a place for the girl from Hammerfell in their ranks."

This was a topic he had listened to a lot when he was younger. Few woman ever made it into the legion. This gender gap was largely backed by archaic reasoning and outdated traditions held by those in power. To this day, Finnick only knew of three women in Skyrim's imperial army. And this one, Nickita, she was the first of Redguard heritage.

"Sorry to hear that. My mom had to go through the same thing when she joined."

Nickita stopped dead in her tracks. Finnick followed suit out of concern.

"Hey, what's going on back there?" Galen called when noticed he had suddenly gained the ability to focus for more than half a second. "We'll never get to Windhelm at this rate."

Finnick looked up and down the frozen warrior to see if she was planning to move anytime soon. Her body show no intention of such actions. She stood with her side to him bearing an expression looked like she had witnessed a dragon burn down a small village. He wasn't exactly sure what to do with her.

"Um, Galen," Finnick spoke worriedly. "I think there's something wrong with Nickita."

"Don't worry about it. It seems you just made a new friend."

Out of nowhere, Finnick felt a force spin him around so that he was now facing the warrior. Her hands were like iron weights atop his shoulders, holding him in place with a bold-faced glare. A situation that seemed vaguely familiar for some reason.

"You know falsely claiming affiliation to a member of the Legion is considered a serious offense in the eyes of the empire?" Her gaze focused on his like an archer on its target. She looked to be searching for the smallest hint of hesitation. Her next word came out slow and controlled so as there was no room for misinterpretation, "Are you the seed of one the legions few sisters-in-arms?"

"Well, I've never really been called a seed before." He struggled to get the words out through the bone-crushing strength of the warrior's grasp. "But, yeah, my mom was a member of the Legion."

"Do not tell me you are the son of the great Legate Rikke, General Tulius' most trusted soldier?!"

A particularly weird tone of what seemed to be excitement came from the cold warrior's mouth. Which only made Finnick feel worse when he responded in an anticlimactically plain:

"…No, I'm not."

"…Oh." She said, still latched onto his shoulder.

The two were still locked in the other one's eyes with the utmost sense of confusion of how to proceed with the conversation.

"Hey! Up-forward you two! Get a move on!" Galen clapped to the back of the line.

As if having said the magic words to end a paralysis spell, Nickita swiftly broke her hold of Finnick and awkwardly ushered for him to retake his spot ahead of her. Once the line had finally reformed, they continued to make progress through the dense woods. What felt like hours passed in silence walking down the indistinct pathways. For some reason, Finnick did not feel tired at all. Maybe it was the remains of adrenalin from living through a fall that should have killed him. That or his predictions about the sun having gone down could have been completely off base. Still, how much longer would before they stopped for the night? He hadn't seen a single animal during this whole trip and he was beginning to grow quite famished.

"Now, if I'm right," Galen began, pushing aside a low branch. "This forest should soon open up to a cliff-ish structure that overlooks Windhelm."

"Wait already?" Finnick spoke in shock. "That's amazing!"

Galen turned to face the courier rubbing his fingernails against his cloth covered chest plate with much pride. "Much faster than those _inferior trails_ , right?"

"Yeah!" He agreed. "A journey like this one would have normally taken me several days! You're so cool!"

Galen smiled proudly. "No need to marvel, Finnick. Like you, I am but a humble proletariat of the world. And unlike, Nicky, I happen to be of a peaceful, and compassionate and a not-killing-everything-insight nature." The elf's candied words were now being reinforced with outrageous hand gestures. "Though sometimes my own brilliance astounds even myself. For I fear that one day I may become the next Talos and have the mortals wage wars over me. Oh, such a fate to behold." He concluded dramatically.

Nickita walked passed him unamused. "You know if you become a deity they're gonna call you by your real name, twig."

"Huh? His _real_ name?" Finnick asked, curiosity peaking.

"Sorry, Finnick. Just ignore Nicky. Normally, we don't talk about _personal business_ in front of our company." Said the man whose name might not have been Galen.

"One's name is hardly personal business Mr…"

Galen marched up so that the two were inches apart. Thrusting malevolent finger on her chest plate. His enraged eyes looked up to meet her unintimidated ones. "Don't. You. Dare." He spoke with an uncharacteristically threating tone.

"…Fairbush." Nickita finished with a smile.

"Baaaaaaah!" Fairbush let out a short but loud cry like someone had just stabbed him in the back. He spun around, like a flower petal being carried by an eloquent body of water, over to face a tree. Mustering all his anger into a single action, he gave a tree trunk a forceful kick, waking the delicate little snowflakes that were resting in the branches.

The other two couldn't help but laugh a little at his frustration. It seems that no matter how heavy the armor was, Galen always had a way of getting underneath Nickita's skin. It was nice to see the tables turn, for once. There was something about it all that told Finnick it was all in good fun; this was just their way of getting along. However, he did really want to hear more about Galen's true identity.

"Wait, so you're real name is Fairbush?" Finnick could help but to add a little laugh at the end of such a frail name. Although, he wondered how in the world Fairbush was changed to Galen over the years. At least the nickname twig began to make sense.

"Yes, Finnick," Nickita answered, her back still to him, secretly savoring every second of the moment. "His real name is Gallant Fairbush, The Elf."

"It's not ' _The Elf!_ '" barked Gallant Fairbush, scornfully mocking her tone.

"I know, it just adds such a honeyed ring to it. Don't you think so," Her eye wavered to meet his. " _Mr. Fairbush_?"

"Oh, you are really enjoying this aren't you, _Nicky_?"

"Quite possibly."

"So wait," Finnick said, reentering the conversation. "Nickita hates it when she's called by her nickname and you have a nickname you go by because you hate it when you're called by your real one?"

Galen shrugged. "What can I say, opposites attract I guess." He looked over at the warrior who appeared to have had her share of fun. "Let's just distance ourselves from this traumatic experience as quickly as possible, okay?" The archer motioned for the others to follow him. He pushed aside several other low hanging branches to reveal a scene accurate to the one he had described earlier.

The three of them now stood atop a small hill that slowly declined into a stony road. In one direction, the road appeared to arc towards a mighty waterfall. One so powerful that it seemed to shrug off the icy temperature like the bite of a fly. The road continued on in that direction for several more miles before it met with the horizon. In the other direction, the road sloped up to a second hill and grew larger and grander before it became a massive bridge. This bridge acted as a safe means to cross over the subzero lake, created by the waterfall, that surrounded the great city of Windhelm.

This was one of the four cities in Skyrim that held large influence in the seaward commerce. Windhelm's port made the one in Dawnstar look like a horse's stall. Aside from that, a stark, rebellious aroma had been embedded in the city's begrudging architecture. Back when Finnick had been living in Riverwood, this was the epicenter of Ulfric Stormcloak's empire. The sense of animosity, associated with its leader, was reflected in every structurally sound piece of stone that made up the cities greatness. It was from here where he led his troops, craftily titled the Stromcloaks, while working in symbiosis with three other holds of Skyrim. In the war that took place, the cities that allied themselves with Windhelm were Riften, Dawnstar, and Winterhold. United under a similar set of beliefs they fought against those allied with Legion. The two sides fought during the most detrimental period of time and in the end, settled in a newly enacted peace treaty. General Tulius' grand trap having been foiled by the most unlikely of creatures, dragons. This interference furthered the war several years more and left the town of Helgan shambles; unlike that of the state of Windhelm, a city whose masonry stood piercingly strong juxtaposed the soft snowy backdrop.

Galen turned back to face the group.

"The good news is that we made it through the forest and we are all fine, _physically_ ," Fairbush said with his bruised ego barely intact. "But the bad news is that we arrived too late, the main gates closed."

"Closed? Do gates close?" Finnick asked.

"Look there." He pointed to the base of the city where the bridge met with and two very large, very sturdy doors. "There's usually two guards standing watch but now, nothing. They do that sometimes if it's been a slow day… or an unprecedentedly fast one… with dragons."

"So what now?" He asked Galen.

The Elf stripped off the pack he had slung over his back and was the first one to officially exit the forest. He set the bag on a small powdered pile of snow out in the open.

"Well, now" Galen looked to Nickita. "I say you set up the tent here while me and Finnick do some hunting."

"Why me?" her eyes narrowed to points.

"Wasn't it little Nicky who gave the order, 'you carry it, I set it up?' back in Falkreath?" He recalled, triumphantly resting his arms on the back of his head.

She huffed in defeat. "Keep calling me Nicky and sharpen you to a point, _twig_ " Nickita joked with one intimidating hand on her greatsword. She sauntered out of the forest towards the sack, bumping Galen's exposed gut with her hip.

"Wh- _hell_ , you should know, Nickita. I work well with sharpened twigs." He said removing his bow from around his neck.

"Oh, clever one."

Finnick watched the warrior chuckle to herself as she opened up the pack, rummaging through the main compartment. It looked like a big job for one person. Even someone as strong as her probably needed a second set of hands. Still, Galen was staring at him expectantly.

"Actually, I should probably stay and help," Finnick said to Galen.

"Oh, really?" The elf's pointed ears seemed to slump slightly. "I kinda wanted to… never mind. I'll just leave you both to it." And with that, he placed an arrow loosely in the string of his bow. "Be sure and have a fire ready for me when I get back. Wish me luck."

Nickita, while pulling many objects from the bag, raised a hand weakly as if to say bye as the elf ran back into the forest.

"So what can I do to help?" Finnick asked.

Nickita eyed him for a moment, like she was sizing him up for a fight, then pointed to a large cloth that was at her feet. "I need you to lay that out flat, on some even ground."

This was the first of many convoluted orders Finnick received when setting up the tent. He had never done anything like this before and could tell that Nickita was getting fed-up with all the mistakes he was making. None the less, it was still quite interesting to work with her. She was so sure, so strong, so capable, so… better than he was. Together they moved onto the last step of their project which was where she stood holding a large wooden pole in place while he used the hilt of his dagger to beat a t-shaped stake through the loop on the end.

"So Finnick," Nickita said, clearing her throat beforehand. "Tell me, who was your mother?"

The question had taken him slightly by surprise. He would never have expected Nickita to initiate a conversation with him. Finnick arced his head upward to face her as he squatted over the pole. "Oh, my mom is Talva, Talva Uleren. You might know her as the pride of Camp Constantius, the imperial camp in The Pale."

"I know Camp Constantius, but I never heard word of its pride." She said watching Finnick miss the stake and hammer his own finger. The pain felt blistering in the freezing air.

He waved his hand feverishly, attempting to shake the pain from it. While doing so, he thought about what the warrior had said. It appeared his mom's story had died down over the years, only natural he guessed.

"My mom was one of the more valued fighters back in the days of The Great War. She told the best stories about it too. Always about how she would stand her ground and never… never run from a fight. Anyway, after it was over she was stationed in that camp for a while. Then, there was this accident. Two boats crashed nearby the camp and—"

"The wreck of the Brinehammer?"

"Yeah, that's the one. There was this other ship too, The Sea Squall. Unusual tides strayed it off course. Then the Brinehammer had to cut inwards to shore avoid a collision. That's when it ran aground on a rocky bed and started to sink."

"Never knew there was a second boat involved." Though Finnick couldn't see her face, something made it seem like she didn't fully believe his story. "To think all those lives lost because the captain of Sea Squall could stick to his damn path."

"Actually, not that many were lost and also it would be _her_ path," the pommel of his dagger struck the wood, with a punctuated snap. "My grandma was captain of The Sea Squall back then. She and my dad rescued some of the sailors who had jumped ship."

"And the imperials brought them to shore."

"Yeah."

She waited for him to continue his story but Finnick seemed to be ruminating about his parents. Either that or he really didn't want to bash his own hand again. "So they met there, fell in love, and along came you?"

"Well my dad lived in Dawnstar at the time so there's a lot more about the political forces that kept the apart for a time but yeah, that's short vers-ION," a crushing pain jeered through his fingers again.

"Here, let me," she offered in an almost warm voice.

He handed Nickita the dagger as they traded places. Finnick looked down to watch her pound stake flush to the ground in little over two hits.

"So what did she look like, your mom?"

"She looks a lot like me actually. Short blond hair, though hers was much lighter. Brownish eyes, sturdy jaw, that sort of thing. But, well, she's really strong." Finnick said looking up at his unimpressive arms that held the pole in place.

"Sounds pretty," Nickita added casually as she got down on her knees and smashed the next stake flat.

It took Finnick a minute to process that comment for some reason. He wouldn't have ever thought a conversation like this would ever take place with someone like Nickita. But here they were, just talking away. Who knew she could be so friendly?

"…Yeah, she is. Shortly after I was born she became a guard, in Whiterun. My dad says it was because she couldn't stand being out of the legion and well Dawnstar didn't want an ex-imperial in their ranks so being guard was the next best thing. But yeah, I didn't see her much growing up."

Nickita nodded in agreement as if this was a feeling she too resonated with. They moved over to the final stake and Nickita and began to introduce it to the dirt. "Then you became the courier for Whiterun though?"

Finnick shook his head. "Yep. Well sort of. I'm mean not at first. But you know, my mom was there to help me… Anyway, I'm sure you're tired of hearing my 'exposition.' I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. It's actually quite nice. Normally, they just remain silent during the whole trip."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I bet."

 _Wait,_ _who are "they?"_

The warrior stood up from the tent, handing him his dagger back. With the poles in place, the tent was finished. Finnick was actually quite proud of how it turned, though that was mostly thanks to the shelter aficionado who stood beside him. Still, it would make for a great place to sleep tonight. Finnick turned to complement his partner on a job well done but she had walked over to the edge of the woods motioning for him to follow.

"Quit lollygagging. If we don't have a fire by the time he gets back we'll be in for one of his speeches about how we couldn't survive without him."

Finnick obediently followed her away from the camp. They walked to the perimeter of the forest where they collected dead wood that had fallen to the ground. The duo always made sure the campsite was in their vision for fear of becoming lost. Together Finnick and Nickita carried armfuls of branches and arranged them a safe distance away from the tent. With these sticks, they were able to build a small yet presentable fire. Finnick did so halfheartedly still lost in thought.

 _"…_ _Normally, we drag around the most unpleasant company."_

 _"…_ _Normally, we don't talk about personal business in front of our company."_

 _"…_ _Normally, they just remain silent during the whole trip."_

Just exactly who were these people Finnick had been traveling with? And what exactly were their normal lives like? Also, why was Galen traveling with Nickita in the first place? There were so many questions floating around in his head he wasn't sure which to ask first, if any at all. He was so close to Windhelm, perhaps it would best to just enjoy their company while it lasted. Both these people had been such good friends to him. Galen, so genuine and caring, he probably had made many friends on his travels. Then there was Nickita. Despite her cold and gruff nature, she did have a certain way about her. Perhaps it was her personality that reminded him of someone he once knew. People like this couldn't possibly harbor any true dark secrets.

"Faster." Nickita order Finnick.

"Harder, you've got to apply more pressure."

"…You'd better finish before Galen comes back. If see us like this, we'll never hear the end of it."

An angered huff escaped Finnick's chapped lips as he twirled the stick both faster and harder, blowing on the sparks when he could. Starting a fire was never an easy task for him.

Nickita watched from the other side of the pile of sticks they had collected. To her, this was like watching a child trying to lick his own elbow, a task with which one could never accomplish even if they were given several lifetimes to complete it. "Honestly, how have you survived this long and not made a fire before."

Finnick had, in fact, learned to make many fires in his time with Arvel. However, he had never been good at starting them. Thus far, his quickest record stood at nine hours before he finally lit the smallest of kindling. By that time the sun had already risen and there was little to no use for the light. When Arvel had come back from the bushes he quipped that his fire was brighter than he was. A rather harsh insult considering how then elf proceeded to extinguish it with his two fingers.

"Here, do you mind?" Asked Finnick passing her the stick.

She looked at him like he was a lost dog looking for its master. "Let me show you something Galen taught me about fires."

Finnick watched as the warrior shuffled a hand around in her armor and pulled out a small glass container of what looked like tiny, bright rubies settled in some blackish dust. The red stones sizzled and glowed as Nickita spilled one out of the container and onto the pile. She took Finnick's stick and struck the gem, dead center. Flames shot out from the stone and ignited the kindling they had gathered instantaneously.

"Fire Salts," she replied to the face that was clearly amazed at what had just happened. "Perfect for camps and forges alike. Though, if I can, I prefer not to _waste_ them."

"Wow. That's… magical."

"Not even slightly."

After lighting the fire, there wasn't much left to do but to sit and wait for Galen to return to the campsite. At least it wasn't so cold anymore. Finnick couldn't help but think about all the nice food Galen would bring back. He had already proven his efficacy with a bow when he brought down that wolf. Maybe he would even manage to bring back some quail or better yet elk. Finnick hoped he'd return soon it must have been really freezing without a fire.

His eyes peered across the flames to view Nickita sprawled out on her front, hands holding up her head. Maybe now would be a good time to get to know his saviors a little better.

"Um, hey, Nickita can I ask you something?"

"…sure."

"Well, when did you meet Galen?"

She shifted positions so that she was sitting the same way he was.

"I get asked that a lot. Except most Imperials ask it like ' _what's an able-bodied soldier doing babysitting some pathetic Bosmer?_ '"

Finnick laughed, holding his hand to his face. To hear Nickita's voice transform into that of a thick-skinned lummox was a truly an enchanting experience. She was such a strange person, Nickita. She was first and foremost warrior trained to be cold and rigid. But, there were moments, like this one, where she would cast that part of her aside and enjoy being human for once. If only Galen could have been here to hear this.

"Do people really say that!?"

Nickita gave a most satisfactory nod, "All the time."

"Actually," The elf interjected, once again materializing out of thin air. "It's more like, ' _what's a handsome and kind elf like you doing with such a garish brute?_ '"

"Right on cue, oh humble one."

Galen strode toward the fire looking around the campsite rather unimpressed.

"I find it despairingly funny how there's a forest a stone's throw away and you two chose to set up out here in the open. It's like begging to be ambushed."

"Hey, we set up the damn tent where _you_ left it, blame yourself, twig."

The hunter shook his head in a belittling manner. "Sometimes I wonder how you would survive without me." He unfastened a bag that, when opened, spilled choice cuts of what had once been free animals of the forest onto the frosted floor. Now, the creatures would serve a higher purpose, dinner.

Finnick looked down exuberantly at the size and diversity of the spread.

"You got all this! I didn't even see one bird in that forest."

The elf nodded.

"And they're already skinned!?"

"Yes, they are." His words were that of a father paying acknowledgment to his son remarking on how white the clouds were. He then moved to doll out the sticks they were to cook the meat on. "Remind me, Nicky. How does the order feel about killing other hunters and robbing them of their food?"

"…Finnick was just asking about when we met." She said, avoiding that topic entirely.

"Oh boy, story time beside the camp fire, how cliché. Do take the lead." The elf produced a sense of excitement comparable to a dying oxen, having also had to answer this question many times before. Still, everyone around the fire cooked their food and ready themselves for a tall tale.

Nickita looked from the elf to across the flames of the warm fire. "Well, there's really not that much to tell. Galen's a native here. Born in a tent just off of the trails of Solitude. He came from a family of hunters. You know, the real nomadic type, hence the bow and his knowledge of the woods."

Galen waved a particularly half-hearted two-fingered salute.

"Okay," Finnick said watching as the shadows the fire cast accent Nickita's face.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you have heard about what happened at Cidhna Mine, right?"

Finnick nodded. This was a horrific event that seemed to come out of nowhere. In the far western city, Markarth, there had been some sort of incident in their so-called inescapable jail, Cindhna Mine. Somehow the convicts there banded together and managed to escape into the city. The story had been told many different ways, no one is exactly sure what happened when they got out. The most popular iteration says that a powerful hero happened to be in the city at the time and was able to keep losses minimal.

"Yeah, I delivered a lot of letters that day."

"Did the letters ever mention that it wasn't just convicts that escaped?"

Finnick shrugged. "I don't read them, I just deliver."

"Fair enough," she answered, "Well, the jail was actually filled with these aborigines of Skyrim called The Foreswore. Men dressed in the afterbirth of animals, primal weaponry, the minds of savages. After they escaped jail they unleashed many horrors onto the land around Markarth, and Whiterun too. I was stationed in a town on the border between the two, keeping the peace."

"You see, at the time, there was talk that the Stormcloaks were going to attack Whiterun so a lot of imperial soldiers were forced to remain relatively nearby in case something started to tip the scales of that insipid war," Galen added, referencing the conflict that used to exist between the Imperial and Stromcloak factions.

"Yes, back then things were different." She said looking over her shoulder to the towers of Windhelm. Finnick noticed a slight pause in Nickita's words too.

"So while I was there. I heard this racket echoing out of a nearby cave. So I go to investigate. And, low and behold, I come up behind this guy and dressed in this deer headdress and he's got this poor, screaming elf in his arms like he's about to snap his neck." Nickita leaned forward so that her face was inches away from the flames. "So I come from behind, draw my sword, and _wham!_ "

Finnick jumped shocked by the metallic clash of her mitts.

"Split his head in two." She then proceeded to untangle her hands. "Ever since then the little elf I rescued felt like he owed me something. And now I can't get him to stop following me."

Finnick felt himself become slightly entangled with the story for some reason he couldn't quiet place. "Wow, that was really good!"

Galen shook his head in agreement. "Yeah, and that kill was annexed in the history books as the first time anyone has ever snuck up on someone while clad in heavy armor and holding a greatsword." He paused for a moment to take a bite of his rabbit-on-a-stick. "By the way, I found the use of _wham_ for the sound of your sword makes to be very… fitting." He added moving closer to Nickita's side of the fire.

Finnick looked over both of the people he had been traveling with today. Galen rested his arm around Nickita, grinning as his teeth bit into the cooked thigh meat at the end of his stick. Nickita, who didn't seem particular found of Galen's arm, wore an annoyed mask to hide her joy. In short, this was the best day ever. Finnick hadn't traveled with anyone since his time with Arvel and that had ended pretty so suddenly.

Now, however, Finnick had met new friends. These people also seemed to care for him in their own sort of way. The last time he had this much fun was when he had first become a messenger.

"Really, that was an amazing story, Nickita," he repeated in admiration. "Until now, I had always figured you two as lovers or something."

Nickita smirked, shimmying her way out of the Elf's hold. "Only in Galen's dreams,"

Galen looked back at her with a mouth that wasn't sure if it was open in shock or to laugh. "Geez, ow."

"If I didn't say it you would've." She spoke truth through bites of charred hawk.

Galen agreed and readjusted into a more lofty position.

After finishing off her food, Nickita got up and walked past Finnick and went inside the tent to look around for something. He dismissed this action as he was too focused on Galen's boots which had now been thrust closer to Finnick's side of the fire. They were of a brown leather and shiny gold button-like buckles that ran up the side. He wondered if Galen would be willing to trade for Finnick's own ragged pair. Not that it would be easy to run in boots but the design was extremely appealing.

"Those are some really nice boots, Galen."

The elf looked up from his food and down to his shoes. "Oh, thank you."

"I don't suppose I could try them on, could I?"

"…Yeah, not in this weather. My feet would freeze solid."

"Just for a second, please. We could trade shoes or something."

"I'm sorry Finnick, no."

"Are you sure there's not some way we could—"

Galen had retracted his legs inwards as if out of fear that Finnick would start wrestling him for his footwear. "Yes, you'd have to steal them from me when I'm sleeping. That's the only way."

Despite what had been said, Finnick still had the elf's boots at forefront of his mind. Even when he had taken the bread from his satchel and made rabbit haunch sandwich. It was the tastiest thing he had eaten that day. After the third bite, the one that left him with only a sliver of food left, he heard the sounds of Nickita emerging from the tent.

"There's no way all three of us can fit in there. There's room for two, at best."

"Yeah, that is a problem, isn't it?" Galen agreed.

"You two take it." Nickita offered. "Of all of us, I can best resist the cold."

"Yes, you're very strong, Nickita," He said in a particularly condescending tone, "but if you contract an illness then we'll be in for it when we reach Sightless Pit. Please, sleep in the tent."

Nickita scowled, not liking to be ordered what to do.

"Finnick, seeing how you also helped set it up, you can have the remaining spot."

The courier shook his head in disagreement. "Thank you, but it's okay, I don't mind sleeping outside."

"Finnick, you already said no to going hunting with me; you owe me this."

The courier smiled thankfully. Gallant surely was living up to his namesake, but still, Finnick couldn't take the last spot.

"If you want to make me happy you'll let me sleep outside. In one day you guys have saved my life, provided me safe and fast transport, and shared your food with me. For once, let me feel like I'm not burdening you."

Galen faced shifted expression as he began to formulate a rebuttal. To both of their surprise, it was Nickita who spoke next.

"Damn. That has got to be the most convincing argument I have ever heard a man make to not sleep with a woman. Galen, you're stuck with me tonight."

"Great, get to be kicked in my sleep, just pleasant." After that pained quip, everyone finished what remained of the food, they all set off for bed.

Finnick walked around behind the tent for it was the only part that was out of the reach from the winds. Gods know that it would be hard enough sleeping on the snow.

Before he even began to sit down, Galen returned with an unused tarp in hand. The two of them laid it flat on the ground and anchored it underneath the tent. He even gave Finnick the forest colored cloak he had been wearing to serve as covers. This having been his first time seeing the elf without it on, Finnick was surprised to see a physique that was leaner than his own. Galen's build was that of someone who preferred running to heavy lifting. A feeling Finnick could relate to.

Then, with a brief goodnight, the elf shuffled back to the tent only to be replaced by Nickita seconds later. Who, like her elfish compatriot, had also shed her armor. Finnick was so used to seeing her with it on it took him a second to recognize her. Though her brazenly toned torso stowed beneath her lining shirt and legs that could court an orc severed as proper identification.

"Hey! Eye's front n' center!" she ordered, forcing what appeared to be the back plate of her armor into Finnick's hands. "You may use it as a pillow."

The weight of the metal compromised Finnick's sustainable carrying capacity as he dropped in the center of his make-shift bed, right atop his "covers." He looked to the warrior to see if she had noticed.

Nickita's eyes, staring blankly at her armor, bore the expression that pleaded to the gods to help this man find a noose with which to hang himself with.

"Turn it over. There's a soft leather inside." And without so much as a wave goodnight, Nickita marched back inside the tent. At least the thought was a nice gesture.

After spending a far too long trying to flip the armor on to its side, Finnick finally had the makings of a decent bed. He removed his harness and belt setting them aside as settled his head atop his mostly empty rucksack that sat inside Nickita's armor. Granted this bed was still ages away from being anything nearly comfortable but it was better than nothing. Now reposed against the cold ground, Finnick could look to the sky which held the two moons that in danced secular divinity. Such a setting seemed to only be laid just for him to rest under. He forced his eyes shut and attempted to find sleep. Completely unaware of the horrific events that border on the horizon.

[End of Chapter]


End file.
